


The Last Hunter

by round_robin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Episode: s08e13 Everybody Hates Hitler, F/M, Gates of Hell, Gen, Men of Letters, Men of Letters Bunker, Season/Series 08, Season/Series 09, Tall Tales, The Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 00:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13558530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: Turning his laptop, Sam showed Dean his crazy-ish hunch. “I think we might be hunting Paul Bunyan.”“Paul Bunyan,” Dean repeated. “Like the tall tale? Thirty foot tall lumberjack with cheesy statues all over the country. That Paul Bunyan?”“Yeah, that Paul Bunyan.” Dean’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline and Sam held up his hands. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Historians have been trying to connect Paul Bunyan to a real person. Some think he was a French Canadian named Bon Jean.”“Oh c’mon! First you try to tell me Paul Bunyan is real, then he’s not even American?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic at the end of season 10. Yes, I really did. I got about two-thirds finished and suddenly couldn't figure out how to end it. Season 13 provided a lot of help (no real spoilers in this, just a few points I branched off of) and now I'm happy with how it ended up. I started it so long ago I can't even remember where the idea came from, only that I was thinking how much I liked Season 8 (because of Benny) and wished there was more of Death in the show. I invented a new kind of monster for this, but you'll find that out as the fic goes along. This starts right after 8x13 Everybody Hates Hitler and just before 8x14 Trial and Error.
> 
> I will probably add more tags and characters as I go along because I can't remember everything that's in this. The fic is finished, I do not do WIPs, so it is totally done, I'll just post chapters whenever I get a chance. Do not let the f/m tag fool you, there is very little romance in this, almost none. It is a pure case fic.

The newspaper smacked down on the table and Dean stood there, waiting for Sam to notice the headline. When he didn’t pay it any mind (busy cataloging something or other) Dean nudged it along the table.

Sam finished the card entry he was making before turning his attention to the paper. “AX MURDERS IN NORTH DAKOTA” the headline read. He looked up at his brother and his big grin. It was the one he got when he was excited for a new case. “Dude, you went for a supply run. How did you manage to find a case?”

Dean shrugged and put down the grocery bags. “We’ve got a lull and I like to work. Ax murders though, how many of those are there?”

“Actually, they used to be kind of common. Mostly because it was a handy weapon everyone had lying around in their house. More often than not, they were crimes of passion. With the invention of the chainsaw and people doing less of their own work around the house, they leveled out and disappeared about three quarters of a century ago.”

“Know it all.” Dean settled into a chair and put his feet up. “It looks good though, right?”

“Maybe?” He skimmed the article, nothing jumped out at him. “What makes you think this is our thing and not just your garden variety yokel gone crazy?”

“Fifth paragraph in.” Dean smirked to himself and waited for Sam to find it.

Sam’s eyes went wide. “According to an eyewitness, there was a man fleeing the scene of the second murder. Witness description: seven feet tall, four hundred pounds. Wow. Yeah, this might be our kind of thing.”

“Yao Ming on Mark McGwire level steroids. A guy like that would get noticed, but they have zero suspects for this. Makes me think it might be another golem. One with a less-friendly master.”

“Taking his revenge by chopping people’s heads off?”

“Who knows. C’mon Sammy, can we go?”

Sam read the article again. Only three victims so far, maybe they could nip it in the bud. If it was their kind of thing. And Dean had been in such a good mood lately... “Yeah, sure. Give me a few to pack up.”

“Awesome.” Dean popped up from his chair and grabbed the grocery bags. “I’ll put the supplies in the car. Be ready to motor in ten!”

Shaking his head, Sam packed up his laptop and put all the card entry stuff away. Even in the bunker, they both kept a bag packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Who knew when Kevin might need them and they had to haul ass to him? A hunter was always prepared, and they were the best.

The next morning, they pulled up outside the McLean County Sheriff’s station. Fed threads in place, they walked in like they owned the joint. They were used to the con by now and did it with ease. Dean flashed his badge at the deputy minding the front desk. “Agents Keith and Stokes. We’re here about the ax murders.”

The young man behind the desk smiled at them. “Yes sir, I’ll go get the sheriff.”

He disappeared into a back office and came out a moment later, a woman with him. She extended a hand to them. “Hello Agents, I’m Sheriff Leslie Case. My deputy says you’re here about the ax murders?”

“Yes sheriff, we sure are,” Dean said. “Is there any information you can give us? Anything that connected the victims?”

“Other than being hacked to pieces? Yeah. Doug, can you get me the files?” The deputy pulled a few files off the stack on his desk, handing them to the sheriff. She thumbed open the first folder. “All three worked for the same company, Jordan Travel and Rentals. Word around town was they were inspecting the old lumber yard, seeing if their company wanted to acquire it.”

“Word around town?” Sam asked.

She shrugged. “Small town, agent, small county, word spreads. That lumber yard has been in operation for over a hundred years and some folks around here would rather go to jail than see it steamrolled over for some woodland retreat tourist nonsense.”

They exchanged a look. This was sounding more and more like yokels. “You say that like you have a suspect,” Dean said.

“Not really. We’ve got nothing to go on.” She flipped open one of the files and handed it to Sam. “We have one eye witness, and I say that in the loosest meaning of the term. She ain’t exactly reliable.”

Sam scanned through the witness statement of Ms. Maggie Lofter. It was dripping with crazy, luckily, it was their kind of crazy. “If it’s all the same to you, sheriff, we’d like to have a word with her.”

“Knock yourselves out. She lives at the end of Piermont, right before you hit the park,” she said.

Sam closed the files. “Mind if we borrow these?”

“No problem.”

They thanked the sheriff and headed out. It was almost noon and they stopped to get food before going to see Maggie. As they drove, Sam couldn’t help but notice all the well kept fields and farms, large barns converted into woodworking shops or other country stores. There wasn’t a rotting, derelict building in sight. It felt... off.

“You seeing all this?” he asked.

Dean glanced out the window and nodded. “You’re right. Aren’t podunk towns like this usually struggling? And the lumber mill. When was the last time you heard of a small town lumber mill still in business?”

“Could be another pagan god. Like the scarecrow, remember? Some sort of forest god that protects this area, keeps the town alive. The ax murders were its yearly sacrifice.”

Dean thought for a minute. “Maybe. We’ll check for cyclical deaths when we get back to the motel.” They fell silent, but something didn’t fit the god theory as well as it should. “Hey, aren’t most pagan gods all about the environment? That scarecrow, he was protecting the trees in that orchard. This one is, what? Protecting a lumber mill? That’s not exactly on the list of places Greenpeace wants to save.”

“Huh.” Sam flipped through the files again. All the bodies were found on the edge of one forest or another. That certainly sounded like a tree god to him. “We’ll get a better idea about it after we talk to the witness.”

Maggie lived in a trailer on the edge of an overgrown meadow that backed up to the woods. Actually, “trailer” was a generous term for it. More like a shack on wheels. Dean knocked on the door. “Hold on!” a voice called. There was some noise inside and a vent at the top of the trailer popped open.

While they waited for Maggie to vent the pot smell, Dean scanned the meadow. “Hey.” He nudged Sam and pointed to the edge of the tree line. A torn length of caution tape flapped in the wind. “Does the file say anything about this also being a crime scene?”

Before Sam could check, the door swung open. And older woman with fluffy gray hair and a dress that might have started life as a tablecloth smiled at them. Fresh tears dripped from her bloodshot eyes. Dean had to hand it to her: using eye drops to cover for the red eyes. At least she was trying. “Can I help you?” she asked.

They flashed their badges. “Agents Keith and Stokes. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the murder you witnessed last week.”

She nodded and stepped out of the trailer, closing the door behind her. Good. Dean wanted to avoid a contact high. “What do you wanna know?”

“We wanted to ask you about the man you saw,” Sam said, already starting with the soft eyes and the charming smile. “According to your statement, he was seven feet tall.”

“Yes, he was.” She crossed her arms over her chest and took a step back. “Are you here to laugh at me too?”

“No ma’am. We believe you. We just wanted to get some more details about him, and what happened,” Dean said.

Maggie looked from Sam to Dean, then nodded. “Yeah, alright. It was right over there.” She pointed a shaking finger to where meadow met the trees and the caution tape spun in the wind. “I heard a scream and came out to see what it was. There was a giant chasing that poor man. He had this giant ax too, bigger than I’ve ever seen. He swung and chopped the guy in half.” She paused and a shudder ran through her. “He saw me, he must have, but he didn’t care. He threw the ax over his shoulder and walked back into the park. Just there.”

Sam and Dean followed her finger to the edge of the woods and a sign that read “Fort Stevenson State Park.” They eyed the sign. “That’s a state park?” Sam asked.

Maggie nodded. “Largest one in the state. There are some places even experienced campers won’t go. Wouldn’t surprise me if a monster was living in there, no one knowing for years and years.”

Transitioning away from the flare of crazy, Dean got them back on track. “How else would you describe him? Other than a giant.”

“I only saw him for  second, but he was built, like a lot of the logging boys around here.” She bit her lip, trying to remember anything else. “Now that I think of it, he was dressed like those boys too.”

“How so?”

“Oh, you know. Flannel shirt, blue jeans, heavy boots.” She closed her eyes and shivered again. “He had a double bladed ax. I’ll never forget that. Not even the oldest, craziest loggers around here will use a double blade. There’s no point to ‘em, save chopping yourself up on accident.”

Sam looked her up and down. “You seem to know a lot about logging.” It was a surprise, what with the pot and her general granola-ie vibe.

“I grew up here. I might be the town crazy now, there was a time I was young enough to date few of those boys who worked at the lumber yard. I heard their stories, fish tales a lot of them, but what I saw...” she closed her eyes again and shook her head. “That was real.”

Sam glanced at his brother and a silent message passed between them. He had a hunch he wanted to test. “Are there any local legends associated with the lumber mill? Anything you can think of?”

“Kind of. I mean, a couple of years ago, some local kids got drunk and went to graffiti the yard. They said Bigfoot chased them off.” Maggie shook her head. “That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Well, thank you very much for your time.” Dean took his fed business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, anything at all, even if it seems weird, you give us a call.”

She took the card and mumbled a quick goodbye, then scampered back inside her trailer. Sam and Dean went back to the car before they compared notes. Sam had a theory, but he had to check a few things online first.

“Bigfoot?” Dean grumbled as he pulled out onto the road. “Seriously?”

Sam ignored him. “Did you hear what she said about that ax?”

“Yeah, that is was... uh, double bladed. Ugh, what are those called? Labrys, I think,” he said.

“Right.” Sam stopped being surprised at his brother’s random knowledge a while ago. He’d known for a long time that Dean was practically a genius. Next to Bobby, there was no one better with remembering obscure lore off the top of his head. “The labrys is a symbol found all over Greek legend. Usually as the symbol of a goddess.”

“So we’re looking for a... Greek forestry goddess who decided to set up shop in North Dakota?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “It’s a start.”

“But she said it was a dude.”

“She was probably high at the time. Or, maybe this thing is the goddess’ servant. We’ll know more when we get some research done.”

They got back to the motel and Sam started up his laptop right away. Dean always took a few minutes to settle in. He shed his monkey suit as soon as possible and after shaking himself like a wet dog, he announced he was going to get food. Sam wasn’t paying attention, he was too busy chasing his hunch. It was a long shot, but the double bladed ax stuck in his mind. Maybe something he read in the Men of Letters’ files.

A while later, the door opened again and Dean put a bag of fast food down in front of him. “Thanks. Could you check if there are any similar deaths going back? I’m working on something else.”

Dean nodded. “No problem.” Burger in one hand, he surfed through past ax murders around North Dakota. Nothing stuck out, no more than the weapon of convenience killings Sam mentioned earlier.

Dean closed his laptop and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Nothing. I’m gonna give Aaron a call, ask about Golem activity.”

“Sure,” Sam said absently. It was starting to look like his hunch wasn’t so crazy after all. Still, they should double check on the Golem front.

He listened to Dean’s half of the conversation. “Hey Aaron, Dean Winchester. We caught a case up in North Dakota... yeah, the ax murders. You see them too? Yeah, we got a witness who says the attacker was seven feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. No.” Dean rolled his eyes. “No, we don’t think it’s your Golem. We were wondering if you, or... him, might know of any other, I don’t know, rogue actors? Any masterless Golems roaming the country?”

He paused for a moment but kept pacing between their beds. “And you’re sure? He says he’s the only one and you’re good with that? No, Aaron, I don’t think he’s lying to you, I think he lived in a box for seventy years. He’s probably not up on Golem News Monthly.... Okay, if you’re sure, you’re sure.” Dean stopped pacing and Sam looked up. He watched his brother’s face, dark with doubt, light up, it was how he got when someone pointed out something he missed. “You’re right. If a Golem wanted to kill anybody, he wouldn’t need an ax. Okay, thanks Aaron. Call if you hear anything.”

He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. “Aaron says it’s not a Golem.”

“I think he’s right.” Turning his laptop, Sam showed Dean his crazy-ish hunch. “I think we might be hunting Paul Bunyan.”

“Paul Bunyan,” Dean repeated. “Like the tall tale? Thirty foot tall lumberjack with cheesy statues all over the country. That Paul Bunyan?”

“Yeah, that Paul Bunyan.” Dean’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline and Sam held up his hands. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. You’ve heard of John Henry, right? Annie Oakley, Davy Crockett?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re considered tall tales too, but they were real people. Historians have been trying to connect Paul Bunyan to a real person. Some think he was a French Canadian named Bon Jean.”

“Oh c’mon! First you try to tell me Paul Bunyan is real, then he’s not even American?” Dean started to pace again. “And wasn’t Paul Bunyan supposed to be a giant? Like twenty, thirty feet? Maggie said this guy was seven feet tall.”

“In the earliest stories, he was just seven feet tall. Once word spread and he became mythologized, he go bigger and bigger. People were shorter back then, so even if he was seven feet tall, he’d seem like a giant.”

Dean nodded to himself, considering. “Okay, sure, I get all that. But if he was a real guy, how is he still alive? Aren’t all of these tall tales from the eighteen hundreds?”

Sam pushed his computer away and started going through his notes, looking for the journal he’d been working on since they discovered the Men of Letters’ bunker. “I’ve been going through the Men of Letters’ files and I found something. They’re called Archetypes.”

He handed Dean the notebook and started explaining. “Archetypes started as humans. They were famous for something, fishing, shooting, whatever. They got so famous, their stories spread so far, soon their name is synonymous with their profession. They become a type of lower god. Paul Bunyan is famous for being a giant lumberjack—”

“His story spreads, gets bigger and bigger until every guy with an ax knows who he is,” Dean said.

“Exactly. He becomes the Archetype of all lumberjacks, the ideal. Kind of a patron saint.”

“Okay, I’m sold.” Dean felt sleep pulling at him and shook himself a little. “Why haven’t we heard of these Archetype things before? We’ve hunted pretty much everything there is to hunt.”

“The file said hunters never had much contact with them.” Sam pawed through his notes. “Yeah, they used to be people, so they’re not really good or bad and never cause much upset. That is how we hear about monsters: they make waves. Never make waves, keep the hunters off your tail.”

“Sure,” Dean said. “Until someone tries to close the local lumber mill and heads start to roll.” He walked over to his bed and plunked down. “Last murder was four days ago. He probably doesn’t have another planned, especially if he finished them all off. I say we get some shut eye, go gank Paul Bunyan tomorrow. And that is a sentence I never thought I’d say.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Only, I didn’t get through the whole file on Archetypes. If they’re gods, there has to be a trick to kill them and we don’t know what it is.”

Dean sat up again. “You’re right, that is a problem.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Then, Sam got another... crazy idea. “We could... try to talk to him?” Dean just stared at him. “The lore says Archetypes used to be human. Maybe he had a reason. Self defence, something.”

Dean closed his eyes. “So you want to talk to Paul Bunyan after we know he ax murdered three people?” He shook his head. “Again, never thought I’d say that.”

“What else can we do?” Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was starting to feel the day and the drive, and didn’t want to give into his impulse to mention the other monster Dean didn’t mind saving recently. “We don’t know how to kill him. And if what the sheriff said is true, he only killed those people for threatening the lumber mill, which means he’s probably not violent in normal circumstances. So unless you plan on beheading a seven foot tall man without getting your head smashed in, talk is pretty much our only option.”

“Or...” Dean held up a finger, letting it hang in midair as he thought up a better idea. He clapped his hands together and smiled. “Or, we go find him, get the lay of the situation, then book it back to the bunker to read the rest of the lore. We figure out how to gank him and hightail it back before he decides to go all Ax Cop again.”

“Sure.” While Sam didn’t doubt there was something else at play here, he trusted Dean’s gut. He was the best hunter Sam knew and if anyone could find a way to kill a brand new type of monster, it would be him.

They settled in for the night, ready to face a possible living legend in the morning.

 

~

 

Maggie’s trailer was the only real location they had, so that’s where they started. There was a dirt road near her place that went into the park. They followed it until it got too narrow for the Impala. Armed with machetes, guns, salt, and anything else that could kill a monster, they set out into the woods.

About an hour’s walk from the car, they heard a crack. Dean held up his hand to still them, drawing back the hammer of his gun with the other. There was a whistle of a blade through the air and another crack.

“That sound like someone splitting wood to you?” Dean whispered.

“Oh yeah.” Sam held the shotgun tight to his shoulder and nodded. The chopping continued.

Creeping as quietly as they could, they walked towards the sound. It got louder and louder until they saw a large figure through the trees. Just like Maggie described: seven feet tall, and built like a brick wall. A knot twisted in Dean’s stomach. Seven feet sure looked a lot bigger than he thought. Motioning for Sam to go left, they spread out, trying to get around the Goliath-like figure. Dean had to remind himself: he’s only a foot taller than you.

Suddenly, the giant stopped his ax mid-swing and stood up straight. “Hello Dean Winchester. It’s good to finally meet you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean was now a sickly green color, sweat poured down his face and he looked as close to throwing up as Sam had ever seen. He didn’t care if fricking Paul Bunyan killed them, not if his brother was in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a full explanation in here of my new kind of monster.
> 
> If you notice a typo, please include it with your comment and it'll be seen to. :)

Sam looked at Dean, eyes wide, fingers tense on the shotgun. “What now?” he mouthed. Dean didn’t say anything.

The giant didn’t turn, didn’t look at them. “You cannot kill me with those. What say you come out and we speak like civilised men?”

“Dean,” Sam whispered, inching closer to his brother.

Dean didn’t move. He stood, completely frozen, eyes wide to take in the whole scene. A monster... knew his name. How did it know his name? Demons, sure, they were practically water cooler talk with demons. But a monster they’d never heard of until last night? This was wrong on so many levels.

“Please,” the giant said. “Come and speak with me. If it makes you feel better, I will rest my ax.” With practiced ease, he threw the large ax across the clearing where the blade buried itself in a stump. He turned and sat down on another stump, leaning back on the largest cart either of them had seen, half full of split logs. He beckoned them with his hand. “Please, come forward. I always enjoy meeting a new brother.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed again. He shuffled back towards Dean and nudged him with his arm, gun still at the ready. “Dean, what the hell? Snap out of it.”

Dean took a breath and nodded. “I’m good,” he lied. A knot twisted in his stomach. It was new, yet somehow old. This situation was somehow... familiar. He shook the feeling off. Shoulder to shoulder, they walked into the clearing, staying by the edge of the treeline.

The giant smiled. “Thank you. My name is Bon Jean, and you are the Winchesters. Two of the greatest hunters in all the land.” He looked between them, briefly sizing Sam and the shotgun up, but then he focused on Dean. He smiled at him, like he was meeting an old friend. It made Sam’s skin twitch.

“How do you know about us?” he growled. Strangely enough, Dean stood quietly next to him. Dean was always the first with a word or a quip, seeing him like this was... not good.

Bon Jean shrugged and took a five gallon water jug from the back of his cart. He held it in his hand the way a normal sized person would hold a Big Gulp. “You are famous. Dean Winchester and his brother Sam. We’ve all heard about you.”

“We?” Sam asked. “Who’s we? Other Archetypes?”

“My brothers and sisters, yes. Annie is particularly fond of your firearm. You know, the one pointed at my head.” Dean’s fingers tightened on the trigger and Bon Jean smiled.

“Annie—Annie Oakley?” Dean asked. He didn’t like the shake in his voice, but he didn’t like a monster knowing his name either.

“ _ Oui _ , that’s Annie. She is the Archetype of all those who use a gun for sport.” He took a long drink of his water and set the jug back down on the wagon. “And you, Dean Winchester, will soon come to join our ranks. With your escape from Purgatory, you’re already halfway there.”

“What.” Dean was completely white now. The gun shook in his hand and Sam stepped closer to him. He’d seen Dean like this before, usually before he passed out from blood loss. “What are you... what are you saying?”

A wide smile spread across Bon Jean’s face. “You don’t know? Surely, you’re joking. Every hunter, every slayer of demons and monsters, they know your name. They tell your stories to their children at night. Dean Winchester has escaped from Hell, he stopped the apocalypse, he destroyed the leviathan. You are the hunter all others of your ilk wish to be like. That is the first step to joining us.

“When my story first spread and other log men began calling themselves Bunyan, John Henry came to welcome me to this new life.” He nodded to Dean in a strange half-bow. “I will do the same for you, if you wish.”

Sam wasn’t looking at Bon Jean anymore. He knew better than to take his eyes off an enemy, but Dean... Dean was now a sickly green color, sweat poured down his face and he looked as close to throwing up as Sam had ever seen. He didn’t care if fricking Paul Bunyan killed them, not if his brother was in trouble. “Dean,” he whispered.

Dean lowered his gun and grabbed Sam’s shoulder in a movement so fast, he almost didn’t see it. “We’re leaving.” Without any more warning, Dean turned and ran from the clearing. Sam followed as fast as he could.

A deep rolling chuckle echoed through the trees as they ran. “When you wish to know more, you’ll know where to find me!” Bon Jean called after them, laughing and laughing as they ran.

Dean ran faster and longer than Sam had ever seen him run before. He had trouble keeping up. He didn’t stop until they were back at the car. Dean wrenched open the back door and threw their gear in, then slid in the front seat and turned the car on. “Get in!” he shouted. Sam barely had the door closed when Dean peeled out. Dirt slid under the tires and they should’ve spun out. They didn’t. Dean gunned it out of the park.

“Dean!” Sam shouted over the roar of the engine. “Dean, slow down! We’re gonna get pulled over!”

Dean didn’t say anything, didn’t look at Sam and definitely didn’t slow down. Sam glanced at the speedometer, they were pushing one hundred and no one had stopped them. “Dean!” he shouted again. “We gotta stop! C’mon, man!”

Dean didn’t start to slow until they were two counties over. And they hadn’t met a single cop, or state trooper, no one to arrest them for their negligibly high speed. Finally, Dean pulled onto the shoulder and got out of the car, stumbling to the side of the road. Sam heard his brother retching into a ditch and he ran a hand through his hair. What the hell was going on?

He got out of the car and followed the noises. “Dean?”

Dean held out a hand to keep Sam back. There wasn’t much is his stomach and he was mostly dry heaving now. When the last shudder rippled through him, he stood up and took the bottle of water Sam offered him. “I can’t do it again, Sammy, I can’t be a monster.” His voice was ragged from getting sick, Sam told himself, that was the only reason.

“We don’t even know what he was talking about,” Sam said. “He’s lying, trying to get under our skin. We’ll go back to the bunker, take another look at the lore and figure out how to kill him, then be done with this.”

“You heard him!” Dean shouted. “We’re famous! I’m famous! And if that’s how he became...” he trailed off and shook his head. “I can’t be a monster again, I won’t do it. And there might not be a cure like there was for a vampire. That was a one in a million shot!”

“Hey!” Sam grabbed onto his shoulders and shook him. “I won’t let it happen. All the crap we’ve been through, you think I’ll let you become some head chopping thing? No way. You have to trust that I have your back. We’ll fix this, we always do.”

Dean nodded, going a little slack. “Yeah, okay.” Only their fixes involved demon deals and death. He didn’t think they could pull off another one.

“Besides, he was probably lying,” Sam said. “Monsters lie all the time. We’ll clear this up and figure out how to gank him. Okay?”

Dean nodded again and got back into the car. He didn’t tell Sam but he knew it wasn’t a lie. They’d been a little too lucky for a little too long—and they weren’t very lucky to begin with. They got past eight super powered Aztec gods without a scratch, then he got through that whole nest by himself. They were good, but they weren’t that good. At first, Dean thought it was the year in Purgatory honing his hunting skills. Maybe it was more, something else they didn’t know about...

Even with Dean traveling a reasonable speed (reasonable for him) they still made the twelve hour trip in just under nine. He didn’t stop once, not even for gas. They didn’t hit a single cop or red light. They got back to the bunker and Dean ran inside before Sam could catch him.

Sam found him down in the library, the entire A section of the Men of Letters’ files already splashed out on the table. “Where is it?” Dean asked, hands shaking. “Isn’t this crap alphabetical?”

“Dean!” Sam grabbed his shoulders and pulled him away from the table. “I know where the file is, I’ll get it. You need to chill before you give yourself a heart attack. Why is this hitting you so hard?”

“Why?” He shrugged away from Sam. “A monster just told me I was next in line to become a monster, and you’re wondering why it bothers me?”

He held up his hands. It didn’t happen often—and not for a while—but sometimes when Dean got really drunk, he got violent, thinking the world was out to get him. Their dad was the same way. Sam had way too much experience calming violent family members for his liking. The way Dean pulled away from him, eyes darting around the room like a scared animal—that was the closest experience Sam had to what was happening now. So he’d treat his brother like the angry, paranoid drunk he was and get this under control.

“Monsters lie,” he said. “Bon Jean was lying. Even if becoming a modern tall tale is how you become an Archetype, why’d he only talk about you? We’re both known to other hunters. Hell, they all know I’m the idiot who started the freaking apocalypse. So unless you know something I don’t, he’s lying, and we’re gonna kill him. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “No, you’re right. There’s nothing else I can think of,” he lied.

“Good. Why don’t you get some food, take a few to calm down, and I’ll get the research started.”

Dean swiped a hand through his hair. “Sure, no problem.” With stilted, jerky movements, Dean walked out of the library and went back outside. Sam foresaw a supply run mostly made up of pie and beer. If that was what made his brother feel better, he’d deal with it, go out later and get some real food.

First things first, he put away all the extra files he didn’t need, leaving only the Archetype case file. He’d read through most of it and flipped to the back page, where the Men of Letters kept the information about supplemental materials. Apparently there was a recording down in the archive storage, an interview with Henry, John, “Archetype of Railroads and Rail Workers.” Bon Jean did mention John Henry, and Sam knew he was an actual person. He did a report in middle school. He went down stairs and found the recorded interview. They had an old reel to reel player somewhere.

By the time Sam got everything together and went up to the library, Dean was back, pacing up and down between the tables, the open Archetype file in his hands. “Wow.” Sam set the tapes and the old player down on the table. “That has to be the quickest supply run since... ever.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean continued to pace. Sam kept half an eye on him while he loaded up the tape. The slap of the folder on the table made him jump. “I can’t do this.” Dean buried his face in his hands again. “I’m too nervous, I can’t read the damn words!”

“Okay, okay, calm down.” Sam picked up the file and thumbed through it. “Do you want me to... read it to you?”

“Yes. Please.” Sam thought of five different jokes Dean could’ve made, and if he thought of five, Dean probably thought of twenty. But he didn’t say them. Head in his hands, he continued to pace, like a lion stalking inside a too small cage. He was still a little too pale and obviously hadn’t calmed down. Well, Sam guessed this was as good as it was gonna get.

He sat down and started reading. “Archetypes are a type of lower god. They’re considered the ideal of their profession and thought to protect all those who share that profession. A few examples include: Paul Bunyan, Annie Oakley, Sherlock Holmes, and Charlotte Corday.” There were a few paragraphs yammering on about Plato’s Forms. He skipped it. Dean didn’t care about the philosophy and the Men of Letters tended to go on and on.

“Most Archetypes are American in origin, but several come from Europe, such as Mr. Holmes and Miss. Corday. The Men of Letters have not encountered any Archetypes from South America, Asia, or Africa, however this does not mean they do not exist.”

“Skip to the good stuff,” Dean interrupted. “How do they even become Archetypes? They can’t just be the ‘ideal’ whatever. If that was it, there’s be zillions of them.”

Sam skipped a few pages until he found it. “For some, it is a notable life that makes them immortal. For others, it is a notable death that brings them back to life. Then, should the Archetype accept their new duty and lay claim over what is theirs, the change is complete.”

“Immortal,” Dean whispered. Every word poured into his brain and twisted his gut a little more. “They’re immortal.”

Sam shrugged. “We’ve killed immortals before. There’s just a trick to it.”

“Find it. Do the Men of Letters even know how to kill one of these?”

Sam scanned down to the bottom of the page. “The only known way to kill an Archetype is...”

“What?” Dean turned and leaned on the table, his knuckles white. “What’s it say?”

“The only known way to kill an Archetype is to destroy every human they represent.” Sam shook his head and slumped back in the chair. “So to kill Bon Jean, we’d have to kill every human lumberjack, woodsman, and logger.”

Yeah, they’d killed people before, but never on a scale like that. Dean couldn’t think of a single hunter who’d make that deal. He hung his head. “They are immortal, then.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Looks like.”

Dean fell silent, his shoulders tense as he stared at the ground, not wanting to look at his brother. Sam busied himself shifting through the file a little more. It was mostly the same: Archetypes can’t be killed, but they’re humans, so that’s okay. Sometimes he hated how... lax the Men of Letters were, how blind. Humans had the potential to be killers too and they didn’t seem to care that Archetypes had the potential to fall into that trap.

“Uh, there’s an interview here,” Sam said. “With John Henry.”

“Set it up.” Dean paced back and forth while Sam loaded the reels into the old tape player. He knew what it meant when Dean paced like this, when he couldn’t stop moving and twitching. He wouldn’t bother asking, Dean wouldn’t tell him anyway. Whatever it was, they’d figure it out. They always did.

Sam loaded the tape and hit play. The crackle of the old tape poured out of the speakers:

“James Haggerty, October the 21st, 1934. Men of Letters interview 1173. Class of being: Archetype. Name of subject, John Henry. Thank you for being with me today, Mr. Henry.”

“Please,” a second voice said. “John is fine.”

“Thank you for the courtesy. I understand your time is precious.”

“If I can help my brothers and sisters, it’s more than a pleasure to meet with you.”

“John, as we understand, Archetypes are a very powerful, yet non-threatening class of being. We would simply like to make sure that is correct before we shy our hunters away from you.”

“Of course. We were all human once. You might say we’re only as dangerous as a human can be.”

“Well, we both know what a question that is.” Haggerty chuckled. There was a rustle of papers. “You say you were all human once? Yet we have a record of one Sherlock Holmes. He was never a real person, he’s a literary character. How is it he came to be the Archetype of all detectives?”

“Holmes is an interesting case. My brothers and sisters believe it was his great fame that made him flesh. To this day, people read his stories and call in to Scotland Yard, asking to speak to Mr. Holmes. Some do believe he is real.”

“Like a Tulpa?”

“We think so, yes. Since Conan Doyle based Holmes’ abilities on his own reasoning skills, the knowledge and presence came from a living, flesh and blood man. That might have been enough to make him real.”

“Fascinating.”

Dean rubbed a hand across his face. “Can we skip ahead?”

“We don’t want to miss anything,” Sam said. Dean nodded and continued to pace, walking a little faster.

“You know all Archetypes? As in: you can feel them?”

“Yes, we can. Though I haven’t met a few of the others, I know they are out there. And, we know when someone is about to become one of us. We can feel it.”

Dean stopped pacing.

“How is it done? Through great and memorable acts, certainly, but there has to be more?”

“Yes. The acts can’t be simply memorable, they have to be an epic. Something no normal human being could accomplish. Once the story spreads and your name is synonymous with your accomplishments, the process starts. I was a steel drivin’ man and I died racing a machine. That story spread and it brought me back to life.”

“Do all Archetypes have to die to become one?”

“It helps, but no.”

“Could you give me an example?”

“Annie Oakley is an Archetype who hasn’t died for her title. She was so well known in her life, the transition was easy. However, she is our cautionary tale, of sorts.”

“How so?”

“Once you’re on the path to becoming an Archetype, almost nothing can stop it. The final step is to claim what is yours. I’m the Archetype of railroads and those who work them. I claimed that right. Annie put it off for too long and finally, fate decided for her. Once that is set, there is no changing.”

“Fascinating.” There was another shuffle of papers. “What exactly is her domain?”

John Henry chuckled, low and deep. “Mr. Haggerty, I agreed to meet to discuss our nature, not to name names. I have no issue discussing myself, but if you want to know more about Annie, you will have to speak to her yourself.”

“I understand. Would you answer a hypothetical scenario then?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who might be on this path you spoke of? A potential Archetype? If so, how would that... transpire?”

The tape crackled for a moment. “There is no hunter Archetype. Your type of hunter. They either die too soon for their story to spread, or live too long and lose their hope for humanity. A man who doesn’t love his profession can never hope to be its Archetype.”

Sam looked up at his brother. Dean’s face was pale again. They were both thinking the same thing: no hunter Archetype meant that, maybe, Bon Jean wasn’t lying.

“Your Dorothy Baum was on track to be the Archetype of hunters.”

“Frank’s daughter?”

“Yes. She was good at her job, she enjoyed it, and her story was known far and wide. Then, she disappeared. We can’t feel her anymore, which means she can’t become one.”

“Ah, yes. She went back to Oz to continue her work there.”

“Oz?” Sam and Dean mumbled.

“Dorothy is a real? And she’s a hunter?”

Sam shrugged. “I guess so.”

“And if she hadn’t disappeared,” Haggerty’s voice continued. “What then?”

“If she was to be the hunter’s Archetype, it would start with dreams, visions of her fallen brethren.” Dean stopped pacing, his spine straightening. “Then, whatever she deemed necessary for her job, it would come to her. Slowly, the obstacles this mortal plain puts in front of its inhabitants would cease to exist for her. Then, one of us would appear to her and explain. Finally, she would claim her title. I, Dorothy Baum, the Archetype of all hunters... and so on.”

“Fascinating.”

“Turn it off.” Dean was white as a sheet. “Sam, turn it off.”

Sam flipped the tape off and glared at his brother. “Have you been having dreams?” Dean said nothing and Sam stood up, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around. “Are you serious right now? We’ve been at this long enough to know dreams are never just dreams. Have you—”

“No!” Dean lied. He shrugged away from Sam and covered his face again, willing everything to stop, this conversation and this whole night. “No, not—they’re just dreams! Memories! Bobby and the Roadhouse. I thought...”

“You thought what?”

“I thought...”

Sam grabbed him again. “Thought what? I know we’ve always played fast and loose, but not with this, not with your life.”

Not looking at his brother, Dean sighed. “I couldn’t dream in Purgatory. I thought I was just, I don’t know, resetting? They’re like—you remember Heaven, reliving all your greatest hits. I thought they were memories. The Roadhouse, playing pool with Ash, or Jo, or sitting at Bobby’s. That’s it. They’re just memories.”

Sam stepped away from him. “Yeah well, maybe they’re not.”

Dean started to sag against the nearest wall. He’d been going for too long, running on empty, and he was starting to crash. The adrenaline from meeting Bon Jean wore off hours ago and he was running on fumes. He needed sleep, time to process... this. “I need sleep,” he mumbled.

“Yeah. After a nine hour haul, we both do.” Sam reached over and grabbed Dean’s shoulders again. “We’ll figure this out. Look at the lore again when we’re not so fried. If it is true—”

“It’s true.” Part of Dean knew that back in North Dakota. Bon Jean’s words... they made sense in a kind of way that didn’t make sense at all. It was real. He was turning into a monster.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Sam said. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He managed a weak smile and squeezed Sam’s arm. “I know, Sammy. We’re always fine. We’ll figure it out.” Dean didn’t believe the words, but Sam did, which was all that mattered.

He left the library and somehow managed to get to his room without falling on his face and passing out. As soon as he hit his sheets, he did exactly that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They didn't encounter Dorothy until season 9, and this starts in season 8, but if they combed through the men of letters files, she was bound to show up. That's my reasoning, anyway.
> 
> I know John Henry's speech was a little formal, but I didn't feel comfortable writing him with any kind of accent. I did a lot of research for this and I couldn't find anything 100% conclusive on where he was from or what regional accent he'd have, so I just dropped it completely. Read his voice however you please. I only kept the "steel drivin' man" thing because literally every article or website I found on him spelled it that way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey Bobby.” Dean set his beer down on the desk. Bobby grunted his answer, eyes not leaving the book in front of him. “You ever hear of an Archetype?”
> 
> Bobby’s eyes stopped moving across the ancient text. “Some. Why you askin’?”
> 
> “What do you know?” he said, ignoring the question. There was enough time to explain later... he hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're getting into the meat of season 8, the trials and all that. I do have some chapters that take place inside certain episodes and have dialogue from those episodes. I tried to gloss through those events to keep the fic from dragging too much.
> 
> If you spot a typo, please let me know and it'll be taken care of. Enjoy!

Dean lifted his head off the book in front of him. The page stuck to his face before fluttering back down. He read the title of the page. Banshees.

“Thought you could use some sleep,” a gruff voice said. “So I let you doze, but if you drooled on my book, boy...” Bobby left the threat hanging and slid a beer into Dean’s hand.

“Thanks.” He took a sip and looked around. Sam was passed out on the couch bed next to the window, his long legs dangling off the end. He remembered this case, it was one of their last ones together before Sam went off to Stanford. They were chasing something that wasn’t a Woman in White, wasn’t a spirit, or anything else they could pin down. So John sent them off to Bobby’s for research. The six hour haul right after a hunt was draining and Bobby always insisted they sleep first. “Growing boys need rest,” he grumbled.

Dean focused back on the lore in front of him, then up at Bobby. He was a little younger, hair not as gray as it was before the whole ghost thing. It made Dean smile. He loved their dad and he knew he always did his best, but having Bobby as an extra, more stable father figure was a comfort Dean never fully appreciated while Bobby was alive. He trusted him not to judge too harshly, and he needed that right now. More than ever.

“Hey Bobby.” He set his beer down on the desk. Bobby grunted his answer, eyes not leaving the book in front of him. “You ever hear of an Archetype?”

Bobby’s eyes stopped moving across the ancient text. He looked up at Dean, mouth open a little. “Some. Why you askin’?”

“What do you know?” he said, ignoring the question. There was enough time to explain later... he hoped.

Abandoning the research for a minute, Bobby got up and walked to a shelf on the other side of the room. “They’re rare sons of bitches, that’s for sure. They started out as people. Famous deaths and deeds made them immortal and now they’re a kind of... patron saint of whatever made them famous. That’s about it, that’s all I’ve heard.”

“Are they...” Dean didn’t want to ask. But he needed to know. “Evil?”

Bobby shrugged. “They’re people. They started out human and that’s pretty much what they are: powerful people. You know how humans are, we can be good, bad or flat out crazy. I suppose they can too.” He walked back to the desk and threw down one of his old journals. “The one I met was nice enough.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open. “You met an Archetype?”

“Sure. I think I’m the only hunter who has, and it wasn’t a hunt. Just stupid, dumb luck.” He opened the journal and showed Dean the entry. It wasn’t very long, just three words: Annie Oakley = Archetype?

“Annie Oakley, you met Annie Oakley?”

Bobby took a sip of his beer and told the story. “I was out hunting—a regular hunt, mind you, deer mostly—and a stray bullet from some other idjit in the area caught my leg.” He rolled his eyes at the memory. “I was yellin’ bloody murder, scaring all the game away, and this woman appears. She’s got a gun and an orange vest, at first I thought she might be the one who got me.

“She said she was here to help. She made a quick tourniquet, hauled me to my truck, and drove me to the closest doctor. Told me her name was Annie. She saw the guy who got me and said she’d take care of it. I was dizzy from the shock of it all and thought she was planning to press charges or somethin’. She stayed with me while the doctor dug the bullet out of my leg. I thanked her for helping me out and all she said was ‘it’s my job.’” He took another sip of his beer and shook his head. “Then, she disappeared. Right in front of me. One second she was there, then she was gone. I was so hopped up on painkillers, I thought I must’ve imagined her, but the doctor and nurses swore up an’ down a woman brought me in.

“After I met Rufus and started hunting, I did some digging. It took a lot, but I pegged her as an Archetype.”

“Annie Oakley,” Dean whispered. “The Archetype of all those who use guns for sport.”

Bobby lowered his beer. “Now how did you know that?”

Dean sighed and hung his head. Time to come clean with Dream Bobby. He waved his arms around to the book shelves, the kitchen, even Sam asleep on the couch. “This isn’t... this. It’s a dream. My dream.”

Bobby arched an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Sam and me were on a hunt.” Was it really not even a day ago? “Turned out, it was Paul Bunyan.”

“Okay.”

“Turns out he’s...” He fluttered a hand at Bobby’s journal. “An Archetype.”

“Okay.”

Dean bit his lip, refusing to look at Bobby. He was... ashamed. He’d never been ashamed before, not like this. He didn’t want to admit it. “He said I was on my way to becoming one too. And this,” he gestured to the room again, “is one of the signs. Dreams of fallen comrades.”

Bobby didn’t say anything at first. He leaned back in his chair and took off his hat, scratching at his head before putting it back on. “Well, it makes sense,” he said.

“Makes sense?” Dean snapped back. “I tell you you’re dead, and that Paul fricking Bunyan said I’m turning into a monster, and that’s your reaction?  _ Makes sense _ ?”

“First you told me it was a dream. All bets are off after that.” He leaned forward and looked Dean in the eye. “And damn right it makes sense. Outta all the hunters out there, son, you’re the best I know. Your dad included. You’ve hunted nearly everything out there, been doing this longer than most. You may not like how you got pressed into it, but any idjit can tell you love it. Of course you’d be the ideal of all hunters.”

Dean ducked his head again. “I don’t wanna be a monster. If that’s what being the perfect hunter gets me, I don’t want it.”

“Archetypes aren’t monsters,” Bobby said. “They’re people. People who went to great lengths to be the best and protect their kind. That’s all you’ve ever done: be your best and look after Sam. If you play this right, boy, you could make it so no hunter dies by a monster ever again.”

Dean lifted his head. He hadn’t thought of that... No, no, it could still go sideways on him. It did, more often than not, so why should his luck change now? Whatever this was, he didn’t know enough about it and he couldn’t control it. That made it dangerous.

“I can’t do it. I won’t become something else, not like this."

Bobby shrugged. “It’s your choice, son. Make it for the right reasons.”

Dean snapped awake, a full body shiver shaking him. His cold sweat soaked the sheets and the clock proclaimed it almost six in the morning. There was no way he was getting back to sleep. Banishing Dream Bobby from his mind, he got up and headed to the shower, determined not to think about Archetypes or Paul Bunyan again for the whole day.

He’d say this for the Men of Letters: they knew what the finer things in life were. Dean always appreciated good water pressure and the bunker had the best he’d ever felt. After taking the longest shower, he headed down to make breakfast. Sam had his head buried in the library and Dean carefully ignored the Archetype file sitting at his elbow.

He threw himself into decorating and settling in. At first, he didn’t believe this was real and left everything in Baby’s trunk, waiting for the roof to cave in on them, as it so often did. But after a few days, the bunker finally seemed like home. In the back of his mind, as he was displaying his weapons on the wall just right, he couldn’t help thinking that if he was possibly going to live forever, at least he had a nice place to call home.

Naturally, Kevin picked now to call. They got back on the road and for a minute, Dean thought his life was almost normal again. No American legends telling him freaky crap, just a quick trip to see if their prophet was still alive.

“So we’re really not going to talk about this?” Sam asked about an hour out from the bunker.

“Talk about what?” Dean had been playing dumb all his life, no reason to give it up now.

“C’mon, man. You can’t tell me you’re ignoring this.”

“Not ignoring it. I’m setting it on the back burner. We have bigger things right now. Like Kevin and the tablet.”

Sam shook his head. “I’d say you becoming an Archetype is pretty big.”

“ _ Possibly _ becoming an Archetype.” Dean would admit nothing as definite until it actually happened. “Most of them came from their famous deaths, right? I have an excellent plan for that: I won’t die.” He tried to smile. Sam wasn’t buying it.

“I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but we die a lot.” It wasn’t an exaggeration. As far as plans went, Sam wasn’t sure they could keep to that one.

“I know, I know.” His smile faded and he was serious again for the moment. “I figure we keep a low profile and this will blow over. You heard the tape. Dorothy fell off their radar, I can too.”

“I don’t think keeping a low profile is going to cut it. Haggerty said she was in Oz, another dimension.” He threw up his hands. “So unless we want to ship you back to Purgatory, we might need something drastic.”

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened and his knuckles flashed white. “We keep our heads down, do our jobs, like we always do. Stay away from other hunters for a while, Garth included. If our story doesn’t spread, I can’t become an Archetype.”

“I guess,” Sam said, then fell silent. He knew this messed with Dean’s black and white world and he hated what it was doing to his brother, but Dean always had a problem seeing the gray. He’d spent all night pouring over the lore, listening to the tape again and again. This didn’t have to be bad. They could use this...

It took a few minutes for Sam to get up the courage to say, “Would it be all that bad though? Yeah, Bon Jean killed a few people, but all the lore says Archetypes are basically neutral. You’d be a hunter who couldn’t die. Tell me how that’s a bad thing.”

Dean’s knuckles were white again, his teeth grinding together. He’d considered it, oh yes he had. Between the shower and getting dressed, he had a moment of wondering, would it really be so bad? Yes, and no. “Yeah, but how would I be in fifty years? Or a hundred? Leave me alone for a century and I can’t tell you what kind of man I’ll be.”

The sound of the road and the low murmur of the radio filled the air. Sam hadn’t thought of that. His year without Dean was only bearable because of Amelia. Take her away and he was a wreck. “Yeah,” he said. “I wouldn’t be much good without you either.”

And that was the plan: lay low, don’t talk about their work, don’t let their story spread farther than it already had. Sam just hoped it wasn’t already too late.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was their legend that got Dean into this mess, not just his own. The Indestructible Winchesters. He still wasn’t sure why it picked him over Sam. If he started down this road...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during 8x14 trial and Error. There is a little dialogue from that episode at the beginning of this chapter, but I tried to make it a short scene.
> 
> If you find a typo, please let me know and it'll be taken care of. Enjoy!

The trials gave Dean clarity, something to focus on. If they could slam the gates of Hell forever, he’d get out of this whole Archetype thing. If there was nothing left for him to hunt, he couldn’t... change. He’d fall away from infamy and become just another guy. Quitting was hard, yeah, and the other monsters still out there would scratch at his mind, but this was the only way. It was how he stayed human and he wasn’t giving that up.

With his eye on the one yard line, he pushed. He went as hard as he could, blocking out everything else. Then he tripped. He fell, right at the goal, and watched Sam slit the Hellhound from jowls to jewels and rain hellish gore down on himself. Dean’s stomach clenched as he watched and a new possibility entered his mind: what if the trials put Sam on track instead of him? What if his mistake damned his little brother to a fate he didn’t want for himself?

“The spell’s not gonna work for you, Dean,” Sam said as Dean grabbed the shirt coated in Hellhound blood.

He ignored him. “Kah-nuh-ahm-dahr.” Nothing happened. He didn’t feel any different. In fact, he felt more... ordinary than ever, like the Archetype thing was slipping away too. “Doesn’t matter.” He shoved the feelings away, he was good at that. “We’ll find another Hellhound, and I’ll kill it.”

“No.”

“Sam, I didn’t pass the test.”

“But I did. And I’m doing the rest of them,” he said.

“My ass you are!” He couldn’t let him do this, and Dean would be damned if he let Sam become what he was afraid of being.

“I’m closing the gates,” Sam said. “It’s a suicide mission for you. Remember your whole plan about not dying? This might be the famous death that tips you over. I mean, closing the gates of Hell is a pretty big deal, no way that goes unnoticed.”

“Sam...”

“I want to slam Hell shut, too, okay? But I want to survive it. I want to live, and so should you. You have friends up here, family. I mean, hell, you even got your own room now. You were right, okay? I see light at the end of this tunnel. And I’m sorry you don’t—I am. But it’s there. And if you come with me, I can take you to it.”

“Sam, be smart.” He had to see it, didn’t he? It was their legend that got Dean into this mess, not just his own. The Indestructible Winchesters. He still wasn’t sure why it picked him over Sam. If he started down this road...

“I am smart, and so are you. You’re not a grunt, Dean. You’re a genius—when it comes to lore, to—you’re the best damn hunter I have ever seen—better than me, better than dad.” Dean hung his head but Sam kept going. “I believe in you, Dean. So, please—please believe in me, too.”

Dean knew when he could push against his brother’s determination and when he couldn’t. He handed the spell over and watched Sam recite it. Watched him twist in pain and glow with... something. It didn’t feel right and in the pit of his stomach, Dean knew this was going to go sideways on them. Not because Sam couldn’t do it—when Sam set his mind to it, he could move mountains. It would be something else, something they couldn’t see or plan for.

They got back into the car and headed for the bunker. While Sam was sleeping off the trial, Dean left a note for him about a supply run. Then he hightailed it to North Dakota. He and Bon Jean needed to have words.

He parked the car at the end of a dirt road and started walking. He didn’t know how, but a pull in his gut told him he was going the right way.  _ When you wish to know more, you’ll know where to find me!  _ The words rang in his ears as he followed his gut. Good news: it meant Sam probably wasn’t on this path. Bad news: he still was.

The pull led him to a clearing about three miles from where they first found Bon Jean. A large cabin sat at the middle of the clearing, two large men sitting on the front porch smoking pipes. Bon Jean smiled at him, waving his pipe. He didn’t know the other man, but his wide frame and tall stature (almost as big as Bon Jean) gave Dean a few guesses: John Henry. Dean didn’t know why he was dressed like the Monopoly man, though.

Bon Jean stood up and opened his arms wide. “Dean Winchester! You’ve returned. I owe you ten dollars, my friend,” he called back to the other man on the porch.

He shook his head and blew a few rings from his pipe. “We’ll call it even.” He stood up and walked down the steps, hand extended to Dean. “Hello, Mr. Winchester, I am John Henry.” His hand swallowed Dean’s and half of his wrist. “I am the Archetype of—”

“Railroads and rail workers, yeah, I got the memo.” He looked back and forth between the two men. Jean wore frayed overalls and no shirt despite the cold, a hand carved straight pipe clenched between his teeth. John was wearing a suit, complete with vest and pocket watch dangling from a chain. A spotless black hat sat on the table between the chairs. “Gotta say,” Dean said. “You’re not what I expected.”

John chuckled and walked back to the porch. “You aren’t the first to say.” Jean disappeared around the side of the house and came back with a third chair, setting it next to theirs. For some reason, Dean didn’t want to be rude and sat down, nodding his thanks. “The railroads here have all but dried up. I’m mostly in Europe these days. Still, I can always spare a visit to welcome a new brother,” John said.

“I’m not your brother,” Dean snapped.

John smiled at him and took a pull from his equally rough pipe. “Not yet.”

Dean dropped his eyes, staring at the knotholes on the old boards of the house. “Look, I got a few questions. I’m not saying I’m onboard with this whole thing, but I need answers and you’re the only ones who have them.”

“Of course,” Jean said. “What would you like to know?”

“I got on your list because I’m famous for killing things that need killing, that I get. My brother’s been beside me most of my life, doin’ exactly the same. Why isn’t he up for the Mr. Hunter crown too?”

“Simple,” Jean said. “He has never loved the job like you do. Yes, he was out for his revenge in the beginning, then tragedy after tragedy wore him down. He does it out of duty now, not love.”

“A man who doesn’t love his profession can never hope to be its Archetype,” John Henry said.

Dean remembered those words from his interview with the Men of Letters. He wanted to deny it, wanted to tell them he did it out of duty too. He owed their father to carry on his work and that was the end of it. He could lie about a lot of things, but not this. Hunting was the only thing that made sense, that made him feel good, like he was still helping the world. When he killed something, it sang in his veins. He felt whole again. Staring down the barrel of a possible eternity as a monster and that feeling was still there.

He swiped a hand over his face. “How do you know all this about my brother?”

“We know your story,” Bon Jean said. “Therefore, we know his. You have more questions than this.”

“Yeah.” He took a breath. He wasn’t supposed to add to the story, but he suspected they already knew. “We found out how to close the gates of Hell. For good.”

John tipped his pipe to him. “A noble mission for any hunter.”

“I was gonna do it,” Dean said. “My brother got to it first. We’re keeping on this path, but I gotta know: if Sam closes the gates of Hell, is there any risk that he could... take my place?”

“No,” John said. “Sam will never be one of us. He sees a way out. You don’t.”

The knot in Dean’s stomach loosened for a second. The only thing Sam would hate more than being a hunter in the first place was being a hunter forever. At least he managed to save his brother from this fate, if only he could save him from the trials. “Thank you,” he said.

“Now, I’m not saying yes to all this, I never said yes to Michael and I’m not agreeing to this either—”

“Yet,” John Henry said with a smile.

“I need a few more specifics. Annie Oakley, she didn’t get to chose her... domain or whatever. Did she? How does that work?”

Bon Jean smiled and puffed on his pipe. John threw his head back and laughed. “That interview I did with the Men of Letters, you’ve heard it. My, my. You hunters are full of surprises.”

“Annie had the same outlook as you do,” Jean said. “She enjoyed her human life and didn’t want to give it up. She waited too long to claim what was hers and she passed from her natural, human life. Her story resurrected her, as it did John, and the universe chose her domain for her.”

“Since hunters have a rather short life expectancy, I wouldn’t put it off, if I were you,” John said.

Dean glared at him. “You’re not me.” He focused back on Bon Jean, he seemed to give straight answers instead of gloating. “Is there any way to stop it? Other than jumping to another dimension.”

Jean puffed on his pipe and shook his head. “One way. You’re not going to like it.”

“I don’t care. Tell me.”

He blew a little smoke and sighed, fixing Dean with a calm, but serious look. “You have to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“All of it. You can never hunt again. You may never pick up a gun, or that Kurdish knife of yours, or a book of your lore. You may never give aid to a hunter, never associate with one again. If you so much as spread a salt line for protection, it will begin all over. You will be pulled back in, and this time you will have no way out.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on Dean.

Dean didn’t say anything for a long time. He couldn’t find the words. The only way out was to abandon everything he knew and loved. He tried that before and did not want to revisit that year with Lisa and Ben. It was good and he was content with life, but he always felt the scratching under his skin. He was never quite satisfied. Dean didn’t like being useless and life as a civilian felt worse, it was like he didn’t even exist. He didn’t think he was strong enough to do that again.

The chair creaked as John Henry stood up, breaking Dean from his thoughts. “If you gentlemen don’t mind, I must be off. I’m meeting Marlene in an hour for our trip back home.”

Bon Jean stood up as well and shook his hand. “Give her my love.”

“Of course. Though, you’ll pardon me if I give it to her when we arrive back home. She’s always in a state when we travel. You know how she hates being away from Paris.” He extended a hand down to Dean. “Mr. Winchester. Please know that, whatever your decision, you are a good man. I believe you would be an asset as the guardian of all hunters.”

Dean couldn’t think of a reason to ignore the hand, so he shook it. “Thanks.” John Henry put on his hat and handed the pipe to Jean then walked down from the porch. Dean blinked and he was gone, disappeared, just like Bobby described Annie.

“So,” Bon Jean said, taking his seat again. “Has this helped?”

Dean didn’t answer. He stood up from his chair and buttoned his jacket against the chill. “I gotta think about this some more.”

“Take all the time you need. But remember: wait too long and your death will decide this for you.”

 

~

 

Dean got back to the bunker and went right to the kitchen to put the supplies away. He tried not to think how he made the twelve hour drive on one tank of gas. Or how he managed it in under six hours without speeding more than usual. Or when his favorite brand of beer just happened to be on sale. He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that whispered  _ all mortal obstacles removed _ and concentrated on putting away the food. Now that they had a real kitchen, maybe he’d make something good for dinner. He could pan fry some steaks—

“That was one hell of a supply run,” Sam said. Dean turned and saw his brother standing in the kitchen door, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t look much worse for the wear after that first trial. Maybe this would go their way.

“Sorry. How long was I gone?” He wasn’t exactly paying attention.

“Day and a half.” Sam grabbed one of the grocery bags and started helping, cracking open two beers and handing one to Dean.

“You weren’t worried?”

“A little. I figured after I started the trials, you’d want to clear your head. Called Kevin, he said you weren’t there, so I figured you went back to talk to Bon Jean.” Dean’s hands stilled on the groceries and Sam rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Dean. You think I don’t know you? This Archetype thing has to be bugging you still, even with the trials filling our plate.” Dean didn’t say anything and Sam nudged his arm. “Talk to me.”

He sighed and nodded. He owed Sam an explanation. “I went to ask him... if there was any risk to you.” He looked straight ahead as he spoke. He didn’t want to look at Sam when he admitted weakness, it just wasn’t in him. “Like you said, these trials might give me a famous death and lock me in this Archetype thing. I was worried it might do the same for you.”

Sam shifted next to him. He probably hadn’t thought of that, too focused on the goal. “And?”

“You’re safe.”

“But?”

Dean hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I asked him if there was any way out for me. If I could reverse what already happened.”

“What’d he say?” When Dean didn’t answer, Sam grabbed his arm and turned him to face him. “Dean, what did he say?”

“There is a way out. But, I don’t—I don’t think I can do it.”

Admitting weakness was right up there with admitting defeat and Sam knew his brother would go to the ends of the earth to avoid either. But it didn’t matter. If there was a way out, he’d help Dean find it. “We gotta try,” Sam said. “Tell me what it is and we can figure it out together.”

Dean lifted his head, eyes locking with Sam’s. “He said I’d have to quit hunting. And he really means quit.” Turning away, he started putting the food away again, squeezing the boxes a little too hard.

“Wasn’t that the plan?” Sam asked. “Slam the gates, retire? What’s so different about what he said?”

“It’s not just about retiring,” Dean said. “I’d have to quit completely. Everything, Sammy. If something came at me, I couldn’t fight it off. I couldn’t do research to help out a hunter. Hell, I couldn’t even use what we know to protect myself! And,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I couldn’t see you. No contact with other hunters.

“I don’t care how bad I want out of this. If I had to live in a world where I wasn’t allowed to see you...” Dean shook his head. “If that’s the case, they can have me, as long as you and me stay the same.”

Sam grabbed his shoulder again. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“Yes it does!” Dean snapped. “It’s what he said and, hey, he’s the expert, right?” He was stuck in this, forever.

“No, Dean, that’s not what I mean.” He pulled Dean’s attention away from the groceries, eyes bright with hope. Now that was something Dean hadn’t seen in a long time. “You can’t talk to other hunters? Perfect. I’ll quit too. After we close the gates, we retire, never hunt again. Isn’t that the goal with all this?”

“You’d do that?” he asked. “Quit completely.”

Sam shrugged. “We’ve done it before. Besides, after we slam the gates, the workload will practically disappear, right? No more demons. Other hunters can deal with vampires and shifters.”

“So, we’re doing this? Quitting the family business?” Dean almost didn’t believe his own words. He would do anything to get out of this Archetype thing, anything that didn’t cost him Sam. Was it possible he could do both?

“Yeah,” Sam said. “We are.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marlene is supposed to be Marlene Dietrich. I love her and so i made her the Archetype of performers. Just a little Easter egg to make me happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, I’m not sure how to feel ‘bout all that, but I’m pleased as punch you consider me a fallen brother at arms,” Benny said.
> 
> Dean snorted. “Please. You’ve saved my ass more times than I can count. I consider you a hunter whether you like it or not.”
> 
> “Since you’re the god of hunters now, I’ll take that as gospel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't take place during any episode in specific, just in the midst of the Trials. Sam is getting worse, obviously, and Dean is holding on by a thread.
> 
> All typos are my fault. Please include them with your comment and they'll be caught and shot. Enjoy!

What was that saying? “The best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.” Turned out, it was mice and men, and Winchesters.

First they found Cas. Then they lost Cas. He was in the wind with a nuke in his pocket, and wasn’t that the last thing they needed? They were supposed to be concentrating on slamming the gates and ignoring Dean’s little (okay, maybe not so little) problem. Normally he’d crawl inside a bottle and drink to forget, but he couldn’t do that this time, not when Sam needed him there one hundred percent.

He threw them into cases while Kevin figured out the trials, and the more he saw, the more he knew they had to get this done. Krissy and her band of the littlest hunters were the last straw. Sam was right: closing the gates gave kids like her the chance they never had. Not just them, but Kevin could live a normal life, and no one would ever lose their mother to a demon ever again.

But every time he looked at Sam, saw how he was suffering after the first trial, and then the second... Dean couldn’t help but think it should’ve been him. It didn’t matter if he became an Archetype, he’d take any consequence to keep his brother safe. The guilt ate him up. He was supposed to be better than this, stronger. Every trial reminded him of his failure—each moment of Sam’s pain was his fault. All his life, he had one job: protect Sammy. Now he was failing that at the worst possible time.

He promised to carry Sam through this, if it was the last thing he did, and he stuck to that. Sam’s every need, desire or whim was his to fulfill. He felt a little guilty keeping his own... issues from his brother, but Sam had bigger things on his plate. So what if Dean’s dreams were getting a little more frequent? It didn’t mean anything. Sometimes, seeing Jo and Bobby one more time was all that got him through the days anymore. It kept him on track in a way. During his waking hours, he was one hundred percent laser focused on Sam. Small reprieves at night made that possible. And hey, a well rested hunter was a rare happening so he needed to take it while he got it.

Dean inhaled deeply before opening his eyes. The smell of rotting leaves and rotting flesh filled his lungs. He opened his eyes and smiled at the dull grey-brown of Purgatory’s forests. There were no fallen hunters in Purgatory, so maybe this was just a regular dream. He went to clutch the ever-present ax in his hand, but there was nothing.

“Dean?” a familiar voice said.

Dean looked up to see Benny staring at him, mouth agape. A wide smile broke across his face and he crossed the clearing, throwing his arms around Benny. “Ah, man it’s good to see you.” It was only a few weeks since Benny’s suicide mission to save Sammy, and he would never be able to repay his friend.

Benny’s large hands patted his back before pushing him away. “Yeah, good to see you too, brother. Why don’ we catch up while we start off for that human door, yeah?”

He waved a hand. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m not really here.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s just a dream.”

“Right.” Benny took a step back and scratched a hand through his beard. “Yours or mine?”

“Mine.” He shook his head. “Man, I got a lot to catch you up on.”

Benny nodded his head towards a fire and a small camp. A felled tree stretched across the ground like some sort of rough bench. “By all means.”

Just like old times, they sat by the fire and Dean told him everything. Stuff he didn’t get to tell him while they were both topside, about Kevin and the tablet, jobs they’d been on, and his... visits with Paul Bunyan. He found himself saying more than he planned to. Talking about the dreams, and the gnawing fear that there was no way to stop this. He didn’t think he’d admitted that to himself yet, but it was true. Odds were good that Dean was set to become an Archetype whether he liked it or not. Benny sat and listened, nodding and murmuring to himself but never interrupting.

When Dean finally finished, Benny took his hat off and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Boy. All that in less than a year?”

“Less than six months.” Wow, had it really been only six months?

Benny shook his head again. “I’ll say this for you Winchesters, you get shit done.”

Dean smiled despite himself. “Yeah, I think that might be why I’m in this mess.”

“An’ that other business. Archetypes, huh?” He shook his head and let out a little whistle. “It would be you.”

Dean chuckled, the sound a little hollow. “That’s what Bobby said.”

“Good man, that one. I didn’t get a chance to mention it to your brother, what with your Bobby wantin’ to chop my head off, but he raised you two right. No better surrogate daddy to be found.”

“Thanks, that means a lot to me.” Though it might not make sense to Sam or Bobby, Benny’s opinion meant the world to Dean. He was family, and family always mattered above all else.

“Wait a second. You said that Archetype deal gave you dreams of fallen comrades?” Dean nodded and Benny twirled a finger around the clearing, pointing at the mess of Purgatory. “If this is your dream...” he trailed off and ducked his head, trying to hide his smile. “Well, I’m not sure how to feel ‘bout all that, but I’m pleased as punch you consider me a fallen brother at arms.”

Dean snorted. “Please. You’ve saved my ass more times than I can count. I consider you a hunter whether you like it or not.”

“Since you’re the god of hunters now, I’ll take that as gospel.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” He might’ve accepted his fate or whatever, didn’t mean he was quite ready to joke about it.

“Hey,” he said after a few minutes of silence. “Where are we?” The various corners of Purgatory looked more or less the same. Trees, a stream, trees, maybe a cave or the start of a ridge, trees again. Dean figured God wasn’t particularly inspired during its creation. Even by Purgatory’s repetitive standards Benny’s clearing looked different. There were trees, a small stream and a cave-looking crack in a nearby cliff, but it was still different. Somehow off.

He peered around Benny’s camp a little more. It looked off too. When he was here, they traveled light, nothing more than what they had in their pockets and whatever weapons they managed to lay their hands on. Benny had a mat woven of reeds or grass or something, sitting near a pretty established fire pit. “Is this—” Dean turned and saw what (by Purgatory standards) was a closet. Two sets of boots and a spare jacket hung off tree limbs. “Benny, is this a permanent camp?”

Benny’s face split into the widest smile Dean had ever seen, which was saying something. “You caught me up on you, let me catch you up on what I’m doin’. You may not expect it what with my humble surroundings, but I damn near run this place now.”

“Really? An’ how’s that work?”

“It was something Cas said: kill a monster in monster heaven, where does it go? That always stuck in my craw because Purgatory’s a loop. Nothin’ that’s supposed to be here can get out—” he smirked at Dean, “—more or less. And nothin’ that ain’t supposed to be here can get in.”

Dean smiled back. “More or less.” He was used to being the exception to all kinds of things.

“Exactly. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, an’ my first week back, I got my answer. I was walkin’ by and some nobody werewolf falls out of that there cave.” He pointed to the crack splitting the cliff. “I thought it was some sort of hide out and got ready for a fight. But the guy just stumbles around, doesn’t pay me one wink of attention and heads north. I think to myself: this is weird.”

“In my storied career of weird, yeah, that definitely counts.” Dean could count on one hand how many times they hadn’t been attacked in Purgatory. The answer was zero.

“So I sit myself down, have a quick rinse in the stream and wait for somethin’ inneresting to happen. A few hours later, a vamp pops outta that cave. He does the same thing: ignores me completely and stumbles off. Another hour goes by, another vamp. This one, I catch.” Benny shook his head. “The man could hardly talk. His brain was fried, Dean, extra crispy style. He does have a little fight in him though, so I take off his head and settle down to see what else happens. Not six hours later and the body disappears right in front of me!”

“What the hell,” Dean mumbled. He was leaning in, riveted.

“Tell me about it. Six hours after that, in the dead of night, the same cat falls outta that cave.”

“The same guy?”

Benny nodded. “Oh yeah. I’m not one for cruel and unusual punishment, but I gotta know what’s up. I took off his head again.”

“And what happened?”

“The same thing. Six hours later: the body disappeared. Six hours after that: same vamp pops outta the cave. I do it again, just to be sure. Same deal.”

A slow smile curled Dean’s face and he shook his head. “You found the end of the loop.”

“I found the end of the loop.” Benny leaned back against the tree, very pleased with himself. “I set up my camp and watch for what comes outta there. If it’s someone I don’t like, they get to stay dead for another half a day.”

“And no one’s figured this out?”

“Not a one. When Purgatory spits them out again, they’re so disoriented, no one even remembers dyin’ in the first place.”

“So, when you say you run this place now, what you mean is no one knows it’s you.”

Benny smirked. “Exactly.”

“Shoot.” He shook his head. “You hacked Purgatory. Benny, you really are a hunter.” If Dean was still here and he found a place like this, you could bet he’d be here day in and day out, making sure all the monsters stayed dead.

“Thank you, brother. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes and Dean closed his eyes, soaking it up. Time was, he and Sam could go hours without speaking, sitting together in companionable silence. But the weight of too many lies, too many issues and problems held them down and they hadn’t done anything like this in years. He loved his brother, but he needed this time away more than he realized. Part of him never wanted to leave—

A rattling cough like someone literally hacking up a lung bled through Dean’s wall. His eyes shot open. His bedroom ceiling was above him, he was back in the bunker.

Still half asleep, he got up and went next door. Sam’s coughing stopped, but he had to check.

Opening the door as quietly as he could, Dean peered into his brother’s room. Sam’s too-large body filled the bed, one arm hanging off the side. He didn’t look any worse for the wear... then Dean saw the splash of red on his pillow and the drops of blood clinging to his lips. Waking Sam now would only make it worse. He’d accuse Dean of hovering, babying him too much, even as the trials slowly ripped him apart. He seemed stable now, and Dean could really use a few more hours away from... this.

He made sure there was a glass of water in reach for when Sam woke up, and sealed up the bunker behind him. There was a town not far away and a bar he’d gone to a few times. He just needed to blow off a little steam. The second Sam called, he’d head straight back.

He sat down at the bar and before he even ordered, a woman placed a beer in front of him and sat down on the stool right next to his. Any other day, Dean wouldn’t mind a good roll in the sheets with another barfly, but not today.

Putting on the patented Winchester “thanks, but no thanks” smile, Dean turned to the woman. Long brown hair and a round, handsome face met him. His smile fell and something deep in his gut told him— “Annie.” The name tumbled out of his mouth and he knew it was true. This was Annie Oakley.

She smiled and sipped from her own beer. “Looks like the John boys have been talking about me. Pleased to meet you, Dean.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “Look, I know all you Archetypes wanna meet the new kid in town. That’s fine. Can we not do this right now, though? Give me a few days? If you haven’t heard, my plate is kind of full.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard. Shutting the gates of Hell. That’s a mighty big undertaking if you ask me.”

“Who asked you?”

Annie chuckled softly and lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I just came to chat. I figure since the boys got a few talks with you, it’s only right I get my two cents. We’re more alike than you think, Dean.”

“Oh yeah? How do you figure?”

“You,” she said, pointing at him with the mouth of her beer bottle, “don’t want a part in any of this.” She took a sip. “Neither did I.”

“You didn’t?” Oh yeah, John Henry had said as much in the Men of Letters interview. So much had happened since then, it all felt so far away. “Why not?”

She shrugged, turning away from him, eyes sliding into a thousand yard stare. “No real reason to it. I liked being human. I liked my family and my life. I didn’t want to leave them to become some immortal whatsit with a higher purpose.” She sighed and took another long drink from her beer, almost emptying it. Dean signaled the bartender for another. “But it happened. Can’t change it now.”

“You know I don’t want this, so—” The bartender set down two beers in front of them and Dean smiled. Sure, just sitting here with Annie freaking Oakley talking about immortality, nothing to see. He leaned in a little closer to keep their discussion more private. “So why are you here? What makes you think you can get to me when they couldn’t?”

Brown eyes locked with his, all smiles and banter gone. “Because unlike Bon Jean and John Henry, I’ll tell you the truth.”

“They lied.” It wasn’t shocking. All monsters lied and Dean never expected them to be an exception.

“More like sugar coated a little too much. I love those boys, Lord knows I do, but they gave you something very dangerous.”

“And what was that?”

“Hope,” she said. “Hope is the most dangerous thing in the world.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” He took another sip of his beer and grabbed the fresh one the bartender set down. It was something to do to distract his mind from this weird ass conversation. “In my experience, hope can go a long way to comforting people.”

Her smile came back and she clinked the necks of their bottles together. “Absolutely. But just ‘cause something’s good doesn’t mean it can’t be dangerous. Take yourself, for instance.” Dean smiled despite himself but Annie’s face was a blank mask. “Hope can empower the powerless, bring happiness to those on the edge of death. It’s false hope you need to watch out for. An’ that’s what they gave you.”

He dropped his eyes to the counter and nodded. “There’s no way out of this.”

“Probably not,” she said.

Well, there it was. He couldn’t say he was surprised. He wasn’t exactly doing much to help himself out of this situation. He tried to force a smile, an old instinct that was getting harder and harder these days. “When you say probably...”

The joke fell flat and Annie sighed, her face getting hard and a little cold. “I mean a million to one, shot in the dark I couldn’t even make.”

“Wow, that good huh?” Gallows humor was his thing, it was comfort. Not this time. Suddenly, Dean felt hollow down to his bones. This thing was going to take him over, crate him out until he was something else. He always thought that, deep down, he couldn’t shake this. Hearing it out loud from someone who was once in his exact situation didn’t make it any better.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” And he could tell, she really meant it. He believed that she didn’t want this anymore than he did and that won her his respect. He valued those who made the best of a bad situation. “Really, all you got left now is to wait for the right moment and claim what’s yours.”

“How will I know... when?” The words felt like ash in his mouth. Dean had done a lot of things he didn’t want to, and a lot of stuff he wasn’t proud of, this might take the cake though.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back a little, remembering that far-away day. “It’s a gut feeling. The strongest gut feeling you’ve ever had. You know deep down in your bones that this is the moment. And for a second, you think if you don’t follow it, it’s gonna kill you.” She shook her head a little and finished off the last of her beer. “When it came to me, I ignored it. Been payin’ the price ever since.”

“And after?” What came after the choice? He saw John Henry and Bon Jean, both content and settled in with their lives. Dean wondered if he’d ever be like that.

Annie smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “The first few decades are a high you never want to come down from.”

“What about the next few decades?”

She shrugged. “Watching all your friends and loved ones grow old and die kinda takes the fun out of it.” That half smile was back as she looked Dean up and down. “You don’t really have that problem though, do ya?”

“No.” He’d only have to watch Sam grow old and die. Wasn’t that the plan though? The brass ring at the end of all this: his brother lives, gets to be normal. If that was the only thing he got out of this Archetype wrap, he’d call it an even trade.

Done with her drink, Annie stood up. She rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Anything you need, just give a holler and I’ll be there.”

“Thanks.”

Dean blinked and she was gone. Just like Bobby said. He vaguely wondered if he’d be able to do that when this all finally shook out. He finished his beer and headed out of the bar, back to the bunker. No matter what happened in the next few weeks, he was sure on one thing: he was not telling Sam.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas' comment about killing a monster in monster heaven always stuck with me and I've been trying for a while to put my ideas about it in a fic.
> 
> There was a little more information out there on Annie Oakley, so I felt a little better about giving her a regional-ish accent. Also, I was a little frustrated that the guy who might be Paul Bunyan was named Jean (basically John) and John Henry was also John. Annie getting a swipe at "the John boys" made me feel a little better about having such repetitive names.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In all his years of doing stupid things for little to no reward, putting his head on the chopping block again and again only to have it all work out in the end, Dean had never felt like this. It felt like a storm was brewing, inside him, all around him. The entire world was one giant hurricane about to make landfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during 8x23 Sacrifice, and a little, little bit of 9x01 I Think I'm Going to Like it Here. Obviously, the angels falling still happens, but it's very much not their priority for the rest of this fic. I'm a little vague about those show events because I couldn't find a good way to work them in. it's a little bit of a cop out, but I'm happy with where my story ended up. It is kind of a season 8 rewrite, so things will be different.
> 
> This is a shorter chapter because I found a good breaking point. At first, it was a too long chapter, so I split it in two for the sake of narrative flow.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, please let me know about any typos. As always, enjoy :)

In all his years of doing stupid things for little to no reward, putting his head on the chopping block again and again only to have it all work out in the end, Dean had never felt like this. It started when they uncovered that tape, the exorcism that cured a demon. His teeth rattled for no reason, his stomach clenched on nothing—food was unappealing for the first time in his life. Not even the best hangover remedy sounded good. It felt like, like a storm was brewing, inside him, all around him. The entire world was one giant hurricane about to make landfall.

For days, the hits kept coming. And boy did they come hard. Even with the final win in sight—Crowley at their mercy, about to pay for all his sins—Dean still didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right leaving with Cas, and he didn’t feel right leaving Sam alone to finish the trials. His brother was plenty capable, no doubt about that. It was something else setting Dean on edge.

Naomi told him about Metatron’s lies and it all clicked. This was wrong. All these trials, all the signs, it all pointed one neon arrow towards God’s plan. Whoever undertook the trials was going to die. Sam was going to die.

“She’s lying,” Cas said.

“Take me to him.” Dean didn’t care if she was lying. He knew she wasn’t and his brother needed him. How could he be so stupid?

“Dean—”

“Take me to him now!”

In a flutter of wings, he was back. Dean tore ass to get inside the church. Cas shouted something about going to fix his home. That was fine, Dean didn’t need him. He needed to save his brother.

Running inside the church, he saw Sam’s hand glowing, like it did at the end of the other trials. There was a look in Sam’s eyes, so intent and focused. He didn’t even notice Dean. “Sammy, stop!”

Tired, half dead eyes stared back at him, blood pouring from his slashed palm. His brother was so wrecked. Dean took slow steps towards him, hands raised, voice calm. With the storm raging inside of him, setting his guts on fire, he didn’t know how he managed it, it was only important that he did. Whatever he was feeling didn’t matter, not compared to Sam.

And he really was feeling a lot. The stone sitting in his gut pulsed, sending flares of not-pain through his whole body. He didn’t know what it meant and didn’t have time to analyze it, not with the martyr like words tumbling from his brother’s lips. Sam didn’t care if he died. Well, that wasn’t up to him.

Dean wasn’t sure what he said. The past few months, hell, the past year, it came out in one long string of word vomit. Pleading, begging, saying anything to get his brother of that ledge. He had to, especially since he was the one who put him there in the first place.

Tears ran down Sam’s already stained face, making streaks in the dust and blood covering him. He’d been through hell and back, Dean knew that better than anyone. “What happens when you’ve decided I can’t be trusted again? I mean, who are you gonna turn to next time instead of me? Another angel, another—another vampire? Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch your brother just—”

“Hold on, hold on! You seriously think that? Because none of it—none of it—is true.” All he’d ever done, he thought that was clear: Sam was his everything. He needed to know that. “Listen, man, I know we’ve had our disagreements, okay? Hell, I know I’ve said some junk that set you back on your heels. But, Sammy...come on. I killed Benny to save you. I’m willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don’t you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever! I need you to see that.”

Sam looked down at the blood spilling from his hand. He shook his head and Dean’s heart sank. “No,” Sam said. “It has to end.” Lunging towards Crowley, Sam clapped his bloody palm full across his face.

“Sammy no!” Dean shouted, but it was too late. A bright light knocked him back.

The rock settled deep in his gut exploded, filling Dean’s veins with fire. He opened his eyes and saw his brother splayed out on the floor. “No!” he shouted.

And yet, there was another part of him that felt calm. It told him,  _ this is it, this is the moment. The one you’ve been waiting for _ . Dean knew what he had to do.

He laid a hand on his brother’s chest and felt the last weak beats of a dying heart. “I, Dean Winchester, the Archetype of all hunters, claim this hunter and all others, under my protection.” Dean didn’t know where the words came from, only that something inside him knew what to say. “I will his life to continue. While I live, no hunter shall ever die a supernatural death.”

The fire in his veins ebbed, the heat died away but the power remained, filling him with light. It kept growing, filling him up until Dean thought he was going to die, but he knew he wouldn’t. This was the most alive any human had ever felt.

Pinpricks of light and dark filled his mind, tiny flames scattered across the world. They were monsters—demons, vampires, ghosts, and a hundred other exotic things Dean had never heard of. He knew where they were, he knew what they were doing, and he knew how to kill them. Every single one. Words from books he never read splashed across his memory, telling him to kill, disenchant, defeat, or stop anything he’d ever come across. And on and on it went, more knowledge pouring into his mind, filling the cracks up until it felt like he knew everything...

All this took a backseat to his brother. Did it work? Did he save Sam? Did he damn himself to a lonely, immortal existence for nothing? Or did the Archetypes come through on their promise?

The heart under his fingers fluttered back to life and Sam sucked in a giant breath. “Sammy?”

“Dean... Dean...” He didn’t say anything else. His eyes fell closed and he slipped into unconsciousness. But that was okay. Sammy was okay.

A great crash sounded from outside, shaking the rickety walls of the church. More lights appeared on Dean’s new internal map. Not monsters, not really... angels. The angels were falling. Naomi wasn’t lying. Oh no, Cas—

Dean cut his thoughts off right there. Cas could take care of himself. Sam couldn’t. “Hey!” he shouted, finally turning his attention to Crowley. Dean now knew the location of every demon on Earth, and the man lying next to him was not among their number. “Crowley, are you good?”

Crowley blinked, slightly dazed, Sam’s blood smeared across his face, mixing with his own. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

“Good.” Dean leaned over, intending to unlock his chains. Before he touched the irons, they fell from Crowley’s wrists. He would analyze that later, Sam now. “You need to help me get him to the car.” Just because he wasn’t dead didn’t mean he was out of danger. Dean felt his brother’s wounds like they were his own. They’d each had worse, but not by much.

While Crowley untangled himself from the chains, Dean heaved Sam’s unconscious body to his feet. He’d carried his brother before and he remembered him being heavier than this. A lot heavier. Dean’s back didn’t bend under his weight, he didn’t ache or feel the strain. In fact, all his pains were gone. The twinge in his back from a years old knife wound, or the pain in his knees from running and jumping over too many fences long after his body was too old for the activity. He was stronger than he’d been for years now.

Snapping his attention back to the here and now, he nodded for Crowley to open the church door for him, then the car. “Easy, Sammy.” He lowered his brother onto the back seat then ran around to the drivers side. “Get in,” he barked at Crowley. He started the car and took off before the door was closed.

Dean paid no mind to the fire filling the sky as he drove. Angel fire rained down but none of it hit them. None of it would. Deep down, Dean knew he’d never hit a single obstacle again.

He floored it all the way to the nearest hospital. The spectacle in the sky was over in minutes and part of Dean’s mind thought about the problems to come. Usually, he had a fairly one track mind—forever focused on the task at hand. But from the moment he laid his hand on Sam, there seemed to be so much more room in his head. Part of him was thinking about his brother, while another was concentrating on the angels. Another was counting all the pinpricks of light inside his head, tallying the work yet to be done. The gates of Hell were closed but that left all the demons currently on earth to deal with.

He shoved the thoughts away and concentrated on Sam. He had to get his brother to safety. He’d figure everything else out once Sam was safe.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was this heat inside him, he couldn’t stand still. And a voice—a new one. All his life, Dean had one voice in the back of his head. It was dad’s voice and it always said the same thing: Protect Sammy. When he changed the voice changed too. Or disappeared, he wasn’t really sure. It wasn’t dad’s voice, or his own. It was a low, subsonic crackle across his nerves. Protect them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All typos are my fault, if you find one, please include it with your comment and it'll be fixed. Thanks and enjoy :)

Hours later, Sam was stable. Still unconscious, but stable. The doctors assured him Sam would make a full recovery. Good. Dean paid a steep price for his brother’s life, he wanted to get the most from his deal. It wasn’t a demon deal, but it might as well be. All the time he spent dodging the Archetypes, only to give in at the end...

As soon as the doctors and nurses left, he closed the door and pressed his hand to the old paint. A sigil unlike any he’d seen burnt into the back of the door. It was a symbol created hundreds of years ago, recorded in the lost journal of a Coptic hunter. In 1534, he and a band of his fellows journeyed around the world, gathering knowledge and killing demons wherever they found them. His life’s work culminated in this: a sigil to keep away all supernatural threats, be they demon, angel, or anything else that might wish a human harm. No one had seen this mark for five hundred years and Dean just carved it into a door to protect his brother.

When faced with the supremely weird, Dean did what he did best: he ignored it.

“How did you—” Crowley started.

“Shut. Up.” he snapped.

There was this heat inside him, he couldn’t stand still. And a voice—a new one. All his life, Dean had one voice in the back of his head. It was dad’s voice and it always said the same thing:  _ Protect Sammy _ . When he changed the voice changed too. Or disappeared, he wasn’t really sure. It wasn’t dad’s voice, or his own. It was a low, subsonic crackle across his nerves.  _ Protect them all _ .

Dean could ignore the pounding in his head and the fire in his veins, but he could not ignore that voice. In saving his brother, he traded his one responsibility for another. The fate of every hunter now rested squarely on him and he couldn’t stand by when he heard their call—no, the directive—to take up their burden. It was his now and his alone.

He stalked across the room and grabbed a pad of paper, scribbling as fast as his shaking hands allowed. “Dean,” Crowley said.

“Shut up,” he growled.

“Dean.”

He whirled around and glared at the little man, baring his teeth for good measure. “Do you not understand shut up, you piece of shit? I don’t care if you’re human now. As far as I’m concerned, you are irredeemable. I could kill you right now and not lose a wink of sleep. So do what I say. Shut. Up.”

Crowley bit his lip, thinking the threat over before pressing on anyway.  _ Prick _ , Dean thought. “I know I’ve done terrible things. I’ll probably never make up for it, and I’ve made peace with that. It doesn’t mean I won’t try.” He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and held it out to Dean. “This is the name and last known location of every demon on earth. I’m not connected to them anymore so I don’t know exact locations. I can get you in the ballpark.”

Dean’s scowl softened. Crowley was trying, he’d give him that. “I don’t need that. I already know.”

“You—how?”

Dean closed his eyes and focused. The map in his mind spread out and thousands of tiny flames burnt themselves into his memory. “There are five thousand, three hundred and fifty-nine demons walking the earth.” He knew them all, their names, locations, how damaged their vessel was, everything. He was connected to the universe now, and the universe was only too glad to show him what work he needed to do.

“Alright,” Crowley said. “So you don’t need my help. I just know where you should start.”

“What are you talking about?”

Crowley wouldn’t look at Dean. He just sat there, staring the the notebook clutched in his hands, the last remnants of his demon life. Dean wondered for a second if he missed it. “I have done so many horrible things,” he said. “If I lived a thousand years, I couldn’t make up for it. But I can... rectify some of what I’ve done to Kevin.”

“What?” Dean nearly snapped. “Are you crazy now too? Kevin’s never gonna forgive you.”

“Nor should he. I don’t deserve that boy’s forgiveness. Regardless, I will fix what I’ve done to him.” He opened the notebook and tore out a page, offering it to Dean. “When I told Kevin I killed his mother, I lied. I... I thought I might need her as leverage in the future. She’s in a storage facility at this address. There’s the location and the number of the...” he frowned a little. “The unit. She’s in. Also the name of the demon guarding her. He’s under strict orders not to harm her.”

Dean took the paper and scowled at the address. “One demon?”

“One demon.”

He closed his eyes and brought up his mental map again, focusing on the address. Well look at that, one demon. Crowley was telling the truth. Dean slid the paper into his pocket. “This doesn’t make you even.”

“I’m not trying to be. You can kill me for all I care, I’m simply trying to return Mrs. Tran to her son. Do that first, then you can dispose of me however you like.”

Right, Dean had a job to do now. His brother was safe, undetectable behind that sigil. As soon as he woke up, he’d hightail it to the bunker and wait out whatever came next. He wouldn’t be too happy about all this, but he was alive, that was enough.

Dean stalked across the room and grabbed the note he scribbled for Sam. He held it out to Crowley. “Here’s the deal: you will stay here and make sure no harm comes to my brother. If you fail in this, I will kill you. When he wakes up, give him this message. If you read it, I will kill you. You will do whatever he says. If you don’t, he will kill you.” They might kill him anyway, but as long as they had him, Crowley would be useful whether he liked it or not.

Surprisingly calm fingers took the note and slid it into the pocket of his ruined suit. “Understood.” Well, Dean was expecting more of a fight than that.

He straightened up and concentrated on Mrs. Tran’s location. There was a clink of metal and a scream. Dean opened his eyes. Inside the dark, dank storage unit, he saw a small body cowering in the corner. “Mrs. Tran?”

Linda Tran looked up from behind her hands, mouth gaping. “Dean? How did you get here! I thought you were that demon.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He knelt down and started picking the lock on her chains. They weren’t enchanted so his new powers were useless. “I’ll explain everything later. We need to go now.”

“He’ll know you’re here. There’s a camera.”

Dean turned and saw the blinking red light up in the corner of the dark cell. Perfect. There went the element of surprise. The sharp squeak of the rusty door opening snapped his attention back to the demon. With Mrs. Tran free, they stood up and Dean put himself in front of her. She was a wonderfully capable woman, but this needed to go fast.

The bright light from the hallway flooded in and Dean blinked against it for a second. Then, a short, pasty white guy with Clark Kent glasses stomped in, glaring at them. “Hey!” he shouted, voice cracking. “How did you get in here?”

The old Dean would’ve had a quip here, something to buy them time to think of a plan. Juiced up Archetype Dean didn’t need a plan, not with the little voice crackling in the back of his mind.  _ Exorcise him! _ it hissed.  _ Save the vessel! Save the human! _ Dean knelt down and slammed a hand to the concrete floor. A perfect devil’s trap burned under his fingers, etching itself into the floor and trapping the demon.

“What!” the kid shouted. He ran towards Dean, only to be pushed back by the circle.

Dean stood up and started chanting. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.” They’d long ago memorized the exorcism, but this was new. Coming from deep inside him, the words had more power—more weight. He felt them snaking through the air and strangling the demon, forcing it to leave the kid’s body. “Ergo, draco maledicte.” The demon twisted and turned, trying to hold on to the vessel. “Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.” With one final seize, the demon tipped its head back. Black smoke poured from the kid’s mouth, swirling in the air before getting dragged down to the ground and back to hell.

One of the dark flames across the map of the world was snuffed out. Only five thousand, three hundred and fifty-eight demons left on earth.

He staggered back, catching himself on a wall. His stomach churned and his head pounded, like there was someone inside his skull hammering away, trying to get out. No, not someone, a million someones. A million little hammers getting bigger, and stronger.

“Dean?”

Right, Mrs. Tran. He shoved it away and focused on her. He needed to bring her back to Kevin. Who knew how long Crowley had her in here. He needed to make sure she was safe, and here was not safe.

He turned around. “Come on Mrs. T, we’re getting you out of here.”

“Is Kevin—”

“Kevin is fine.” He took her shaking hands in his and tried to soothe. He was never much good at it—Sam was the one with the soft touch. The people person. Dean wasn’t sure he was still a person at all. “He’s safe. Sam and me, we have a... sort of safe house. That’s where he’s been staying.” He eyed her ragged clothes. “I’m not sure if we have anything for you to wear but we’ve got good showers and food.” At least they should. He stocked up before all this started. Wow, was it only yesterday? “C’mon, time to motor.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close. He didn’t know if he could transport people with him and no time like the present to find out.

Mrs. Tran’s thin fingers curled around his arm. “Dean, you’re burning up.”

He pulled her a little closer. “I’m fine. Hold on.” Dean closed his eyes and concentrated on the bunker. For a split second, he wondered if he could get in like this, what with all the enchantments keeping them off the grid. Then, the familiar smell of old books and whiskey hit him and he opened his eyes. Just in time to watch the arrow fly three feet past his head.

“Kevin! It’s me!”

Kevin emerged out from behind a fort made of tables and chairs and some of the more redundant books. “Dean? How did you—” he cut himself off and his mouth dropped open. “Mom!” Dropping the (thankfully unloaded) crossbow, Kevin ran across the library and threw his arms around his mother. “Mom!”

She held tight to her son and kissed his head, rubbing her fingers through his hair. “Kevin,” she whispered.

Dean stepped back to give them a moment. He needed a moment himself, actually. The pounding inside his head grew until it was one constant pulse. Catching himself on the back of a chair, Dean tried to breathe. The itch under his skin subsided a little when he exorcised that demon, it was back in full force now. With the pounding inside his head and his skin twitching like it wanted to crawl away, Dean was barely holding himself together. The low hiss his inside his mind became a roar, a million little voices.

_ Wormwood repels Shojos. _

_ Okami started as a breed of Japanese werewolves and evolved over the years. _

_ Vlad the Impaler was last sighted in 1905 in the town of— _

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a hand against his temple, trying to quiet the hunter lore filling his head. Seemed like every journal from every hunter was jockeying for priority.

“Dean!” Kevin’s sharp voice cut through it all and he turned. Mrs. Tran still had her arms around her son, both of them staring at him. “Dean, are you okay?”

“Fine,” he lied. It was always a lie and even if Kevin knew that right now, he also knew not to ask. “You two need to stay here. The bunker is safe.”

“Yeah, it’s really safe now,” Kevin said. “The map table started going nuts and then the bunker sealed itself shut. How did you get in?”

Dean didn’t have time for a long explanation. He had places to be, needed answers of his own. “It doesn’t matter right now, point is, it’s safe here and you guys shouldn’t leave unless you have to. Sam’ll be back soon.”

“Where is Sam?” Kevin asked.

Dean ignored the question. “He’ll be back soon.” The pounding started behind his eyes again.  _ Silver can be used to reflect and intensify sunlight against vampires, which led to the rise of myths about its killing powers _ . “I gotta—I gotta go. When Sam gets here, tell him I’ll be back soon.”

“Soon?” For the first time, Kevin pulled away from his mother, stepping towards Dean. “Dean, what’s going on? You haven’t told me anything.”

“Get your mom a shower and some food,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

“Dean, c’mon. Dean!” The sound rang in his ears, but he was already gone.

He opened his eyes and looked out into the clearing. It was a few miles away from the bunker, a few miles away from anything. Good. No one would hear them. “Annie!” Dean shouted. His voice echoed off the trees and a few frightened birds took flight. “Annie!”

“When I said give me a holler, I didn’t actually mean shout.” He whirled around. Annie was right behind him, smiling. Fucking smiling. “You’re an Archetype now. I’ll always know when you need me.”

“What’s happening to me?” For the first time since he laid his hand over Sam, Dean didn’t feel strong. He felt so weak, like everything inside him was falling apart, trying to tear him limb from limb. It was sheer force of will keeping him together and he could barely stand it. Was this what eternity felt like?

“Hey, calm down.” She stepped forward and cupped Dean’s face in her small hands, thumbs rubbing at his temples. It quieted the voices a little. “The first twenty-four hours are the worst. You are the Archetype of all hunters now, all their knowledge is yours. Any hunter, past, or present, whatever they knew, it’s yours.” She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes, they were too busy searching Dean’s face for a sign he couldn’t handle this. “It takes time for your noggin to adjust to all that new info, yeah?”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was like this?” She tried to warn him about everything else and she left out the most painful part.

Still, she smiled. “I kinda forgot. The last one of us to turn was Marlene in ‘93. The Archetype of performers isn’t exactly the most potent power.” Her eyes raked over him. “The raw power comin’ off you, Dean. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the strongest of all of us now. One day, you might be.”

He grabbed her hands, holding her thin wrists as tight as he could. “First twenty-four hours? I’m about, halfway through, right?”

“Right.”

“And it was worth it.” She needed to tell him this. While Dean knew in his gut that the gates were closed and his brother was alive, that wasn’t good enough. He damned himself to an eternity of this, he needed to know it was worth the price, and he’d only trust Annie to say it. “Yeah? I didn’t sacrifice myself for nothing?”

A wide smile flooded her plump cheeks. This time, it reached her eyes. “Dean Winchester, thanks to you, no hunter will ever lose their life to any sort of creature. No werewolf, no vampire, no ghost or whatever other monster, can lay a hand on anyone you deem a hunter. And that’s forever.”

“Good.” Dean didn’t say the word so much as breathe it. It came out with all the nerves, all the anxiety and fear he spent the day pushing down. He could finally rest, for a moment at least.

Small though she may be, Annie caught him and looped his arm over her shoulders. “C’mon slugger, let’s get you some rest. I promise, after you’re done making the change, you’ll feel like a new man.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean let her transport them to a room. He wasn’t sure where it was, a motel or if it was Annie’s place. He let her put him down on the bed and strip his clothes. He closed his eyes. All he needed was some rest. Tomorrow, the real work began.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm jumbling up show events a little more here. Obviously, what's the first thing Dean does with his powers? Saves Mrs. Tran, duh. I don't like fixing everything, but there are some plot points I'd like to change. Kevin's death, for one. Since Dean didn't need Gadreel to heal Sam, he's not angel possessed and Kevin doesn't die here.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam opened his eyes and felt... nothing. Was this Heaven? If he did close the gates of Hell and he died like God intended, wouldn’t he go to Heaven? Heaven looked an awful lot like a hospital.
> 
> “Good, you’re awake,” a familiar voice said.
> 
> “Crowley.” Not Heaven, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're into the beginning of season 9 now, with no Gadreel. Sam is unharmed-ish. I'm not erasing the angels falling totally (though I finished writing this fic and forgot about the Fall and had to add some stuff in...) it's just not the thrust of this story.
> 
> Thank you and enjoy :)

Sam opened his eyes and felt... nothing. No pain, no bone-deep cold, no fear.

Was this Heaven? If he did close the gates of Hell—his memory was a bit fuzzy—and he died like God intended, wouldn’t he go to Heaven?

Heaven looked an awful lot like a hospital.

“Good, you’re awake,” a familiar voice said.

“Crowley.” Not Heaven, then.

He tried to get up, grab something and take care of Crowley for good. Pain spiraled through his chest the second he moved. He fell back, almost onto the floor, shocks of white hot pain slicing through his torso. But something caught him. “Easy now,” Crowley said. He was right there, arms outstretched, guiding Sam back onto the bed. “No need to make yourself worse.”

“Are you—are you helping me?” It wasn’t unheard of, but whenever Crowley helped _them_ , he was really helping _Crowley_. Sam was either very concussed or missed something large, because there was nothing for Crowley in sitting by his sick bed.

“Yes, I am,” he said. He pat Sam’s shoulder and made sure he was safely in the bed before sitting back down.

“Why?”

Crowley pressed his lips together and nodded, almost to himself. “I have a lot to atone for. Helping you is where I start.”

“Atone... what?” Sam was not connecting the dots here. Sure, he was a little woozy, probably needed food and a good long shower, but that didn’t explain... anything. “Talk,” he snapped. “Tell me what happened. I’m not supposed to be...” alive? Wasn’t that the bargain he made? His life for others? For the world? If he was still here—not in Heaven or Hell (unless Crowley was really jerking him around)—then he wasn’t dead. If Sam wasn’t dead, it didn’t work and all the pain of the last few months... it was all for nothing.

Crowley didn’t answer. He just reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “That’s from Dean. It should explain. I hope. He’s not one for words, your brother.”

Sam snatched away the note and opened it, almost tearing the paper.

_Sammy,_

_It worked. The Gates are closed, Crowley is human. It all worked. I promise. Let’s just say I made a deal to make sure you got through it. Don’t worry, it’s not the ten year kind of deal. As soon as you’re fit, get to the bunker and wait there for me. Do whatever you want with Crowley. I’ve got some stuff to take care of first, I’ll meet you when I can._

_Dean_

It was Dean’s handwriting, it just didn’t make any sense. There wasn’t a demon left who’d deal with them, not that they’d try. And, no way some lowly crossroads snake could undo the Word of—

Sam’s stomach clenched. “He said yes,” he whispered to himself.

“He said yes?” Crowley repeated. Sam jumped a little. He forgot about the demon... human. “Wasn’t that line a dozen apocalypses or so ago?”

Sam ignored him and read the note again. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A sign this was a trick, a dream, hell, he’d even take a coma right now. Any explanation was better than Dean saying yes to the Archetypes.

He read the letter one last time, then folded it up and focused on Crowley. One problem at a time, and this problem was sitting right in front of him. Sam eyed him for a second before asking, “You’re really human?”

“Yes.”

“And you wanna make up for all the shit you’ve done?”

Crowley leaned closer to him, eyes wide and... strangely earnest. “Yes. More than anything. I know I don’t deserve—”

“No, you don’t deserve anything,” Sam snapped. “But helping me is a start.” He looked around the room, his eyes catching on the strange sigil on the back of the door. He shook himself—had to focus. “Find my clothes. We’re getting out of here.”

Crowley did as asked, which was never going to feel normal. He helped Sam up and they walked out of the room. The keys to the Impala were in Sam’s jacket. He didn’t want to think about where Dean went without the car.

Sam was still a little shaky and the nurse wouldn’t let him go. At first. Then Crowley slid in with his smooth talking sales pitch and Sam was officially discharged. He grabbed Crowley’s jacket and hauled him out to the car. Sam told himself he had to keep a hold on him, to make sure he didn’t bolt, there was no way he needed the Ex King of Hell’s shoulder to stay upright.

They made it to the car and drove. Drove straight to the bunker. Newly human, Crowley needed to stop more than Sam wanted to. “I haven’t used my bladder in centuries,” he groused, then immediately apologized. Nope, Sam was never getting used to that.

As they drove, Crowley told him more of what Dean said. More importantly, what Dean did. Burning that sigil with his bare hand... that was angel territory. At the very least. Were Archetypes as powerful as angels? Too many questions built up in his mind. He needed Dean back, now.

By the time they got to the bunker, Sam was walking on his own. “Come on, hurry. Dean might be waiting inside.” Except he hadn’t called. If he was back at the bunker, wouldn’t he call to let Sam know? Maybe he was hurt. The deal he made, whatever, maybe he was still recovering from it and Kevin was helping him get better... then why didn’t Kevin call?

Sam opened the door and an arrow flew by his head, completely missing him and (unfortunately) Crowley. “Sam!” Kevin shouted. “You’re here! Mom!”

“Mom?”

Mrs. Tran poked her head around from the library. “Are we good?” she asked.

“Mrs. Tran!” Forgetting Crowley, Sam ran down the stairs. Linda fucking Tran was alive and well. Sure, she was a little skinny, a little bruised, but alive and with her son. “How did you—we thought you were dead.”

“Dean saved me.” She grabbed Sam’s hand, squeezing it tight. “You boys have helped my family so much. I don’t think I can ever repay you.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s good to have you back.” He hugged the deceptively strong woman. “What do you mean, Dean saved you? Where is he?”

“We were going to ask you the same thing,” Kevin said. “He just appeared with mom, then vanished again.” He gestured around to the flashing warning lights all around them. “The bunker went into lockdown for some reason. I don’t even know how he got inside.”

“The angels fell,” Sam said. Kevin’s eyes went wide. “I’ll explain later, tell me about Dean.” What kind of day was it when Heaven evicting the angels only rated the B problem?

Kevin shrugged. “That was it. He appeared with mom, said you’d be back soon and told me to tell you he’d be back.”

“When?”

“Soon. That’s all he said: he’d be back soon.”

Sam looked around the bunker. Overturned tables and stacks of books crowded the front room, blocking the way to the library. No way Dean would come back and leave it like this. He wasn’t here. So where was he?

Sam showed them the letter and they all shared a look. “So... we wait?” Mrs. Tran said.

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “We wait.”

 

~

 

Pain sliced through Dean’s gut and his eyes shot open. He threw the blankets off, looking for the knife, the bullet—fucking anything. There was nothing. No wound to threat or enemy to fight.

A hand settled on his shoulder and he twitched away. “Hey slugger, calm down,” a familiar voice said.

“Annie... what's happening?”

“I told you.” She touched his shoulder again and pulled him back. Her bare breasts brushed against his back as she pulled him into the warm cocoon of sheets. “The first twenty-four hours are the worst. Best to sleep through it.”

“How can I sleep through this?” Dean’s guts twisted again, pain flaring behind his eyes as points on the map pulsed. _You've got work to do_ , the voice said.

“Don't worry, you'll sleep.” The touch of Annie’s skin seemed to help. Everywhere she touched cooled a bit. The pain lingered, but it was manageable, no worse than he'd had before.

With Annie’s arms wrapped around him, her warm skin pressed against his, Dean closed his eyes and slept.

 

~

 

Dean opened his eyes and stared at the low, pre-dawn light filtering through the motel blinds. The pain was gone now... maybe not gone, exactly, more like focused.

Yes, that felt more right. All the pain, the power burning through Dean’s veins as it changed him into something more than human, it was different now, burned away down to the most powerful nub inside of him. His skin sizzled with it, the knowledge, the magic of a thousand thousand hunters. All the men and women who came before him, he was the distillation of them. Their Archetype. Dean knew what he had to do now.

Moving slowly so not to wake Annie, Dean retrieved his clothes from the floor and studied the map in his mind. It was so clear now, not just a mass of lights and darkness, but layers of information. Information he'd need to protect humanity forever.

“Off already?” a soft voice said.

“Yeah. Lots to do.”

“I get it, don't worry. Do me a favor, though?”

Dean turned, looking at Annie for the first time since the change. She was beautiful, radiant with power, and yet still the same. Her soft brown hair was tangled and messy from the bed sheets, her face the same surprisingly soft oval it was before.

Seeing she had his attention, Annie pulled Dean back into the bed, locking their eyes together to really drive her point home. “Take it slow,” she said.

Dean rolled the words around in his mind. He was expecting something... more profound. “Okay.”

“I'm serious. You're running hot now and all you wanna do is plow through every monster you can get your hands on, believe me, I remember the feeling. Thing is...” She bit her lip, her fingers brushing through Dean’s hair. Calming herself or calming him, he wasn’t quite sure. “I think you're the only one of us with an expiration date.”

He reached up and placed his hand over hers. Her skin felt like ice against his, no... she was normal, he was burning. Too much power sloshing around under his skin, pressing and poking for a place to escape, and all he wanted to do was set it free, burn the face off some demon before moving onto the next, and the next, and the next...

“Yeah. I planned it like that.” And unlike all the Winchesters other plans, this one worked. “No more monsters, that’s the goal. No more monsters, no more hunters, I’ll be the last. And everyone will be safe.”

Annie’s lips turned down a bit before she forced a smile. Round cheeks and honey brown eyes beamed at him. “Shoot, they told me you hunters were stupid. Offer a man immortality and he finds a way out of it.” She took a small, shaky sort of breath, then seemed to steady herself. “Still, do me that favor, yeah? Don’t rush through it like your pants are on fire, alright?”

Dean laughed. “With those eyes, how can I say no?” Dean kissed her hand and they both pretended it wasn’t a lie. Annie was in his head now, they all were, and every Archetype who still walked the earth knew: Dean Winchester wouldn’t last a century, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Dean found a loophole out of near immortality. How could I write him any other way?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are correct, you are no longer a bacterium, you’ve upgraded yourself to a fairly hearty worm. I do not socialize with worms. This is strictly business,” Death said.
> 
> Dean took a moment to consider whether he liked being called a worm or a bacterium less and decided they were both bad. “Okay, business. What business could you possibly have with a worm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Death :) His relationship with Dean is just so interesting and has such complicated layers. Don't get me wrong, Billie is great, but I really miss Death. Dean trying to back-sass and getting shut down with a look was always the best.
> 
> All typos are my fault, please let me know if you find one. As always, enjoy.

Time shot forward like an arrow, leaving Dean behind. It wasn’t the cyclical sort of life he had before: eat, sleep, hunt, drive, repeat. Now it was like... he moved through time, but wasn’t a part of it. He didn’t need to eat, or sleep, or drive. He’d close his eyes, bring up that new mental monster map and poof, there he was, standing next to whatever poor sap he picked out.

While he didn't really need to rest anymore, he still did, after a successful hunt, sitting and surveying his work with a smile. Add a beer and it was all Dean needed.

He was currently sat in a lawn chair outside of his fifth vampire nest today, freshly killed vamps littered the ground around him. He’d get around to burning the bodies in a minute (it was just a snap of his fingers now and poof, instant bonfire) but he wanted to take a moment and savor it, because it wasn’t just his fifth nest today, it was the last. In Pennsylvania, anyway.

Dean was right on track with his goal: kill all monsters. Sure, he spent a few weeks getting used to his new powers, killing in a sort of fever as he moved from state to state, no drive other than the need to protect and save the hunters he now guarded. But after that first week, after his blood cooled and the explosion deep in his stomach stopped pounding a little, Dean decided to go about it with a method: vampires first, demons, then so on down the list until there was nothing left. Vampires were the obvious first choice. They were easy to track—even more so with Dean’s new powers—and easy to kill. He bet himself that he could erase every vamp from a state inside a week, and here he’d done it. One down, forty-nine to go, then on to the rest of the world.

Dean closed his eyes and surveyed his map. Oh yes, he’d done it, no more vamps in Pennsylvania, no more little red flames flickering at him.

He checked what was nearby—maybe he could get another hunt in before cooling off for a while, there had to be something else in these woods—and a sudden presence jolted him. Dean opened his eyes and jumped up, machete out in front of him, ready to attack.

The small and skeletal form of Death stood in front of him. “Hello Dean.”

Dean straightened up but did not lower his machete. “Hello Death.”

Sharp, old and all-knowing eyes regarded Dean’s machete and promptly disregarded it. Whether Death knew Dean _couldn’t_ hurt him, or wouldn’t hurt him, was up for debate.

“How have you been keeping?” It was so quiet, so conversational, Dean almost staggered again. Yes, Death was casual (in his own _I’ve done this shit for so long_ kind of way) but this was different. Less “I could squish you” gravitas, more “greeting a coworker.” That was certainly new.

“Oh, I see.” Dean smirked. Oh yes, he understood what this visit was about. “I’m a little higher up on the food chain now. A little more worth your time.” Death stiffened, but said nothing. “Ha!” Dean laughed. Laughed at Death. Why not? He had no reason to fear him, not anymore. “Ha, this is too good. I’m not a bacterium anymore, am I? Need to play nice with the new immortal neighbors.”

“ _Near_ immortality,” Death said. His words had a bit more bite to them and for a second Dean worried he might have gone too far. Death hadn’t killed him yet, so maybe he was still good? “Once all the hunters are gone, you drop like a stone. And I hear that’s your plan, correct? You’re going to kill all things that crawl the Earth and feast on its skin, and then let yourself die.”

It was Dean’s turn to go stiff. Yeah, that was the plan, he just didn’t expect word to travel so fast. Even if Death could still kill him, he could do worse now: tell Sam about Dean’s long term suicide plot. “Yeah. What does it matter to you?”

“Surprisingly, a great deal. Your very presence shifts the balance: you and your brother were fairly remarkable humans leaving a small, if significant, mark. Now you’re a near cosmic being upending the supernatural food chain. _That_ is what I’m here to discuss. I have no need to greet an Archetype. You are correct, you are no longer a bacterium, you’ve upgraded yourself to a fairly hearty worm. I do not socialize with worms. This is strictly business.”

Dean took a moment to consider whether he liked being called a worm or a bacterium less and decided they were both bad. “Okay, business. What business could you possibly have with a worm?”

Death smirked and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He was still within the lines of their odd relationship.

“You’ve burned quite a trail through the monster inhabitants of this globe, so congratulations on that, however, you are significantly adding to my Reapers’ workload.” Dean arched an eyebrow in question. Death continued. “You know better than most that monsters go to Purgatory. Who do you think brings them there?”

“Your Reapers ferry vamps down to Purgatory?” It made a sort of sense, Dean supposed, a Reaper did get them into Purgatory’s back door. He just never thought monsters got the soul train treatment.

“Vampires, wendigos, shapeshifters, all manner of things. They have lower populations, easily managed by a small group of Reapers—until now.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “Oh.”

“Yes, until you started sending scores down the chute all at once. I’m not sure if you know this, Dean, but most vampires don’t like moving on to Purgatory. They put up a bit of a fight. Do not mistake me—my Reapers can handle themselves against a vampire or three—not twelve at a time.” Death’s eyes flicked away from Dean and eyed the pile of headless corpses. “Five nests, that’s almost forty you’ve sent us today. Not very considerate.”

On the one hand, Dean was a little sorry. He didn’t know Death had a hand in Purgatory, it always seemed like God’s pile of discarded things, as far as Dean knew, no one was in charge of that place. Yet, on the other hand, Dean really didn’t care. Yes, Death was stronger than him, but all this Archetype power flowing through him was like drugs and alcohol at the same time—too good to resist, and made him too dumb to think straight.

“How is this my problem?”

“I can make it your problem.” Death’s voice didn’t change one little bit, but a shiver of fear ran down Dean’s spine. “Or, we can help each other.”

Death left the statement hanging. “Go on.”

“Humans die all the time and I am always in need of Reapers. Diverting those few to handle the flow into Purgatory is a loss. If you were to take over those duties and restore my Reapers to me, I might be inclined to make... concessions.”

“Concessions.” The question hung in the air without Dean even having to ask: _I am interested, what are you offering?_ All those warnings about not playing dice with Death rang in the back of Dean’s mind, yet he couldn’t leave this. Death definitely had an offer for him and he was willing to listen.

“Similar abilities to the Reapers you would replace: access to the worlds of death. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, the Void... Not easy journeys, even for an Archetype, but a simple day to day commute for a Reaper.”

“The Void?” Dean asked. Before Death answered, one of the long dead voices of hunter lore whispered: _the nothingness outside this universe, where angels and demons go after death_. Demons went somewhere other than Hell? How had they not heard of this?

“If you like,” Death said, interrupting Dean’s thoughts. “You will have to make quite a few trips there with all the rogue angels on Earth now. Though in all honesty, I thought you’d be more interested in visiting Heaven... visiting your mother.”

All thoughts of what the Void even was vanished from Dean’s mind. “Mom,” he whispered. The word slipped past his lips before he could stop it. Was Death really offering him an all access pass into Heaven? It sounded too good to be true, and too good to ignore.

“What’s the catch?” It was a deal, and if there was one lesson his family learned over and over, it was that deals were bad and there was always a catch.

Death pressed his lips together and his ancient, craggy face creased a little more. He almost looked... disappointed in Dean for asking such a stupid question. “No catch. We don’t do that to each other. Not at this level. I’m offering you a job, take it or leave it.

“You will have to find a way to open Heaven again—I have no hand in that—but after you open the pearly gates again, the powers I grant will let you come and go as you please.

“But, keep this in mind: if you do take the job, you would be doing me a favor of sorts. A favor I will fully repay when asked.” He smiled. Death smiled. And it wasn’t the little half smile Dean had seen before, the one that said ‘this mortal is almost clever, I like it,’ it was nearly a conspiratorial smirk between friends. Were they friends? “Do you know how powerful it is to have Death owe you a favor? You’ll be the talk of the Archetypes.”

“What kind of favor?” Favor was just another word for deal, wasn’t it? Still, a favor from Death...

"I don’t know, whatever you like—within reason. Say... getting to pick when your brother passes?”

“Hey. Leave Sam out of this.” His fingers tightened on the machete. He thought they were having a friendly chat and Death had to go and bring up Sam? What was he playing at?

Death held up a soothing hand. “Now, now. That wasn’t a threat, merely a suggestion. Certainly you’ve done the math? Sam is a hunter. As the Archetype of all hunters, you protect him from any supernatural death. If all goes to plan, he will live to a very ripe old age indeed, but humans are fragile. They fall off ladders all the time, get hit by cars, any number of normal human things you can no longer protect him from. I can. I can ensure that Sam does not pass on until the moment you say he is ready. Should that be the favor you want in return.”

Dean couldn’t speak. He hadn’t thought about... life. All the stupid things they weren’t a part of. Hunting was the biggest danger they faced, they lived their lives knowing one missed shot could end it all, he never thought about the stupid mundane things they did every day...

“Tell you what,” Death said. “How about we give it a trial run? There are...” he peered down and counted the headless bodies around them, “four vampires waiting in the veil. I told my Reapers to hold off with those. You take care of them, see how you like it, then we can finalize the arrangement.”

Dean didn’t get a chance to answer. There was a sudden blinding light, Death disappeared and he was left alone... with four vampires. The same four he just killed.

The air around them had a ghostly, almost underwater quality. Dean had seen it before but the vampires had not, which explained why they didn’t notice when he appeared next to them.

“Shit,” one whispered. “Shit, where are we?”

He turned, eyes going wide when he saw Dean, mouth opening to shout—

He didn’t get that far. The mix of his own instinct and the instincts of a million hunters before him took over and Dean attacked. The other three caught on quick and went to join their friend. Just like before, they were no match for the Archetype of all hunters.

They punched and grabbed at him, tried to bite him, and Dean evaded every blow. He didn’t need the machete this time (it wouldn’t work anyway) and used his bare hands to punch and strangle the vamps into submission. Out of the corner of his eye, a glowing seam between the two worlds opened up. Purgatory.

One by one, he grabbed each vampire and shoved them through. The fight before was good, but nothing out of the ordinary, just another hunt. This... this was so much more. Every vamp he shoved through to Purgatory, a deep, rolling satisfaction coursed through Dean’s entire body. Somehow, he knew: this was permanent. This was a death these vamps would never come back from. It was the last step in ridding the world of monsters for good.

After all four were gone, Dean collapsed, lungs gulping in air, his blood singing the way it did when he first became an Archetype. And he wanted more. He never wanted to stop.

Minutes or hours might have passed, Dean wasn’t sure, but when Death’s unmistakable presence appeared next to him, he said, “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”

“Good.”

A bright light blinded him again and they were out of the veil. “There are details,” Death said, so casual, like he’d done this a million times. Well, he probably had. “They’ll drop into your head the same way all that hunter knowledge did, give it a day or so. All you have to know from me is that you have my gratitude. And, should that be your desire, Sam is now safe. From everything. His human life will only end when you wish it to. When he is done with it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

With that, Death disappeared, leaving Dean alone in the woods with more power coursing through his veins, and a much longer to do list.

 

~

 

Sam stared at the intricate pin map covering the wall of his room. His eye twitched and he reached for his coffee. He couldn’t sleep now, not when he was so close.

Over the past six months, he’d spoken to every hunter. Quite literally. Every hunter he knew, every hunter in Bobby’s book, everyone he could get numbers for. No one had seen Dean. _But_ , almost every hunter reported reduced monster activity in almost every location they went to. Tonia Calighan—who hunted exclusively vampires after her parents were killed in her teens—hadn’t seen more than one vamp in six months. A few other hunters based out of Pennsylvania, New York and Connecticut reported the same: no vamps, six months. As far as anyone could tell, the entire North East was almost completely clean of vampires.

It had to be Dean. Sam just knew it, deep down in his gut, it was Dean. For whatever reason, Dean was carving his way through every vamp in the North East, making his way down. Sam just didn’t know why.

Why hadn’t Dean contacted him? The note he gave Crowley was the last of it. So whatever “stuff” Dean said he had to take care of clearly involved vampires, which made Sam wonder: why all the secrecy? They’d hunted vamps together so many times, it didn’t make sense for Dean to go off by himself now, especially with the angels falling. Every day, he got calls from other hunters about rogue angels knocking over liquor stores, full on battles in broad daylight, charred wings everywhere. Sam couldn’t help them—wouldn’t help. He had to find Dean first.

He had too many questions only Dean could answer. Why wasn’t he dead? If the gates were closed like Dean said, Sam should be dead. That was the price of the trials and he agreed to pay it. Crowley was human—Sam tested him with every method he had before setting him free months ago—which meant it worked. If it worked, why was he still alive? And where the hell was Dean?

An unhelpful little voice in the back of his head whispered _Archetype_. Sam ignored it and drank more coffee. There had to be a way to find Dean and the absence of vampires was the way he’d do it. There had to be something he missed.

The woosh of air behind him brought Sam’s attention back to the world. Slipping the knife out of his pocket, he turned and slashed—

Dean caught his arm. He eyed the knife. “This how you say hi to your brother?”

The knife clattered to the floor before Sam even decided to drop it. He pulled Dean into a bone-crunching hug. The same happiness, joy, elation that filled him after Dean came back from Hell filled him once again. Sam held him so tight, he heard Dean wheeze a little. Too bad, he wasn’t letting go, not again.

“Sam,” Dean wheezed. “Sammy, let me breathe.” Sam loosened his grip a little but did not let go. “Sammy.” With a sudden strength Sam didn’t remember, Dean pushed him away a little, but kept a hold on his arms. Yes, Sam needed to know Dean was real, that this wasn’t a hallucination from too much coffee and not enough sleep. “Hey,” Dean said. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“What... happened?” It was the first he’d spoken in days. Other than phone calls to other hunters (calls from Kevin to see if he was still alive) Sam locked himself in the bunker. He only went out for food, didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t see anyone, didn’t need anyone except Dean. And now, here he was!

Dean gripped tight to Sam’s shoulders, and Sam’s strong hands held onto his jacket, holding him in place. “I said yes to the Archetypes,” he said. Sam’s face fell. “Nah, it’s not as bad as we thought. And I... I was able to do a lot of good for a lot of people.”

“Like what?”

Dean shook his head and wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “I’ll explain it all later. Right now, you need to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up and we’ll talk.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

A thought tugged at the back of his mind. “Angels... the angels fell.”

“I know.”

“We have to do something about it.” Yes, Sam ignored calls from other hunters, asking for his help, focusing on his search for Dean. But Dean was here now (he was pretty sure this wasn’t a hallucination) and all the things on the backburner suddenly moved up the list.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “We will. We’ll take care of everything. First, you need to get some rest.”

After months of driving on fumes, Sam’s willpower collapsed. He let Dean lead him to his room and put him in bed. Dean settled the covers over his brother and turned out the light. “Get some sleep,” he said. “You’ve got a long life ahead of you.”

“Promise?” Sam mumbled, already half asleep.

“Yeah, promise.”

Sam closed his eyes and slept better than he had since Jessica died.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the idea of the Void was introduced to us in season 13, but Death would know about it. This is where I kind of took ideas from season 13 to help me get back on track with this fic. Again, I started writing this at the end of season 10 and got stuck for an ending.
> 
> I think I mentioned it before, but I just couldn't figure out how to work the angel plots into this. Dean disappeared for 6 months, but Sam wasn't possessed, so I'm thinking Metatron's plans were going a little slower... that is my cover story for why this doesn't fit with anything at all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If the monsters come back, I’ll be back too.” Dean felt that in his bones, deeper and more true than anything: on the day monsters returned to the world, hunters wouldn’t be far behind. And then he’d be back. It wasn’t his Archetype powers telling him that, it was just something Dean had always known. Whether he came back as the Archetype of all hunters or some skinny kid who lost his family to the darkness, Dean knew he’d be back.

The bed shifted next to him and Annie grumbled. Dean didn’t look over at her. He woke with the sunrise and watched it through the broken motel blinds. It was still beautiful.

A warm, calloused hand touched his back and Dean finally turned back to Annie. She smiled up at him. “Hey stranger.”

“Hey yourself.”

They didn’t speak as Annie got up and got dressed. Dean stayed in place, watching the last bit of sunrise over the motel parking lot. It was probably his last sunrise here and he wanted to savor it to the last minute.

Annie’s hand settled on his shoulder and he tore his eyes away from the window. She smiled at him, always soft and kind, hiding her sharp wit and even sharper tongue. “You’re sure about this?”

“Yeah.” He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers, feeling the soft skin and hard calluses together. It was very much Annie to a T. “I’m sure.”

“If the monsters ever come back, what happens? If there are no hunters around, I don’t think humanity do too well. Not without the Winchesters.”

Dean smiled. She’d said this before. The day after he killed the last vampire, the day after he killed the last demon, the last shifter... almost every time, she said it. What happens next? What happens if your work isn’t finished? What happens?

But Dean had an answer. “If the monsters come back, I’ll be back too.” Dean felt that in his bones, deeper and more true than anything: on the day monsters returned to the world, hunters wouldn’t be far behind. And then he’d be back. It wasn’t his Archetype powers telling him that, or Death’s gift of travel between plains, it was just something Dean had always known. Whether he came back as the Archetype of all hunters or some skinny kid who lost his family to the darkness, Dean knew he’d be back.

Annie didn’t say anything. She’d spent the last sixty years trying to talk him out of this plan, thus proving the only person more stubborn than a Winchester was Annie Oakley. Dean thought their dad would like that about her.

She finished getting dressed and stopped next to Dean again. She kissed his cheek and for a brief second, Dean thought he felt a tear roll down her cheek. “Enjoy the party,” she whispered in his ear.

He turned to say goodbye but she was already gone.

Sunrise over, Dean got up and got dressed. He had a party to get to.

 

~

 

Children squealed and ran past him as Dean opened the gate to the backyard. A splash of water hit his leg and one of the kids shouted “Sorry!” then ran after their sibling, continuing the water war. Or were those two cousins? He couldn’t remember anymore, not with the vast crowd that was the Winchester clan.

The large backyard was filled with people, Winchesters all of them, even Sam’s daughters insisted on keeping the name, and their children followed suit. Brothers, sisters, uncles, cousins, great aunts, any family relationship, they were there. After Sam retired from the hunter life, he took their parents’ hope for a normal life to heart and settled down. Then multiplied. A lot. Sam had five children who knew him as “Uncle Dean.” They were all in their sixties now, each with two or three children of their own, and another four or five grandchildren each. Sam had sixteen great-grand children, with one more on the way. A very pregnant woman Dean recognized as Sam’s granddaughter in law passed by him. Maybe two more kids on the way?

After weaving through eight or so kids having a water war, passing two large buffet tables crammed with food, Dean finally found the man of the hour: sitting under a large umbrella, surrounded by children and grandchildren fussing over him.

Ninety-nine years old today, and still strong as ever, Sam shooed them all away. “I’m fine, Jo, I don’t need another glass of water. It’s not that hot out!”

“Are you sure, dad? The doctor said to keep hydrated...”

“Doctors,” Dean said. “What do they know?”

Sam’s face lit up when he saw his brother, the man all his children knew as their uncle. It wasn’t a family secret, no one asked questions about the strangely youthful man who looked exactly like their father’s brother. In one way or another, they all knew: the Winchester family was magic. No one questioned that fact.

“Hey, Uncle Dean.” Jo and her brother John hugged Dean as he made their way past. As always, there was an empty chair right next to Sam, waiting for him to fill it.

He sat down and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. Old yes, but never frail. After all these years a part of Sam still looked youthful: he never lost his hair, he didn’t shrink with age, he was never ill. Whether it was Dean’s power over hunters that did it or Death’s promise that nothing would harm Sam, he didn’t care. All Dean knew was that his brother lived a wonderful, normal life, the life he deserved.

“Hey Sammy. How’s it going?”

“Good.” He waved a hand at his children, chasing them away. “Go away for a minute, I wanna talk to my brother. Go eat food or something.”

They all grumbled as their walked away, some glancing over their shoulders to check on the old man as they left him to go play with their children. Sam waved them all away. “I’m fine!” he called. “I’m fine!”

He shook his head. “They’ve been like that since Eileen passed. Mary keeps giving the others articles about widowers not living long past their spouse’s death.”

“Ha, that sounds like her. Serves you right for naming her after mom. Of course she’d be just as hard headed.”

Sam smiled. “Yeah, serves me right.”

They sat together in silence for a few minutes, watching their family: the youngest playing and running around, Sam’s older grandchildren talking around the barbecue, and finally his children, all hovering a little closer than necessary, watching their father for any signs of distress.

“You’ve done good here, Sam. They’re all amazing.”

“Thanks.” He clapped his hand on Dean’s leg, holding onto him in a typical ‘old man’ way. Dean never thought of his brother as old, not until they decided when to end it... “You would’ve done just as well. Better, probably. The way you helped with John after he was born and Eileen was still in the hospital...” Sam shook his head, shaking away the bad memories that still hurt after half a century. “I owe all this to you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“No. I really do.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the party. Dean didn’t need to mingle with his family, he’d had years with them, years as a man young enough to take part in games and long nights talking after Sam was too tired to stay up. He’d had his time with them. Sam deserved every second they had left.

The party started winding down and the sun began to set. Sam and Dean sat together, watching the light fade for the last time. “Tonight?” Sam said.

“Tonight.”

The kids made their way back over when it started getting cold and hearded Sam back into the house. He went without much prodding, hugging Dean before letting them take him inside. Dean lingered for a little while and said goodbye to every member of his family. The great-grand kids hugged him and kissed him and went back to playing, the grandchildren did the same, then began gathering their broods up. His nieces and nephews though, they knew something was up. Each hug was a little too long, each glance held a little suspicion. Out of everyone else in Sam’s very large family, his children knew the best, they’d heard all the stories and seen the supernatural with their own eyes. They knew Dean’s presence meant something.

He managed to slip away before anyone caught him and demanded to know what was going on between the two.

Dean got to the end of the driveway and slid into the veil. There, an old friend was waiting for him.

“Hello, Death,” Dean said.

Death nodded to him, like he was tipping an invisible hat. “Good evening, Dean.”

They stood together in the veil, watching the ghostly halo around Sam’s home. “I’ll do it after all the little ones are gone,” Death said.

“Thank you.”

“And I’m going to visit him personally.”

“Thank you,” Dean said again. There were no words to explain his gratitude. Over the years, Death had gone so far beyond the terms of their original bargain. Dean transported monsters to their final resting place, and in return, Death kept his brother healthy. In the past sixty-nine years, Sam hadn’t been sick—not a single cold or sore throat—his back didn’t ache as he aged and the knees that hunting destroyed were suddenly perfect again. There were no words to tell Death how much Dean owed him, and he suspected Death didn’t need his gratitude.

Dean spent one last moment watching his brother’s family home abuzz with activity. It was a dream neither of them ever dared to dream and here it was, a normal life, for one of them at least. That was all Dean really wanted, in the end, an escape for his brother. It was the reason he became an Archetype all those years ago, and it was the reason he spent near on seventy years combing the Earth for every last monster.

After he looked his fill, Dean opened up a door to Purgatory and stepped through. Death watched him go. They didn’t need to say much about it, not anymore.

The door closed up behind him and Dean found himself in the familiar, stinking swamps of Purgatory. He breathed it in deep and almost smiled. It was a little like coming home... coming back to the place where he felt his best, the most pure. After all, he was the Archetype of all hunters, retiring to the land of monsters seemed fitting, almost poetic.

“Hey brother,” a familiar voice said. “‘Bout time you made it back.”

Benny handed Dean a black obsidian ax. The wood hummed under his fingers, bringing back memories from so long ago. “Man, I’ve missed these things.”

“You’ll put it to good use. Every single monster is down here because of you. They got a mighty bone to pick.”

“I imagine so.” Dean surveyed the murky forest, then closed his eyes. His internal monster map had already acclimated to Purgatory and lit up with thousands of life signs... monsters, all of them. After picking the Earth clean, he hadn’t seen so many nasties in one spot in ages. The deep Archetype power rumbled in his gut, churning for another fight.

Dean opened his eyes and smiled at Benny. “Let’s go kill things.”

The headed off into the woods, Dean’s blood singing like it hadn’t in years. Back on the Earth, as he slowly bled away every last monster, hunters started to retire. As soon as they didn’t consider themselves hunters anymore, their knowledge vanished from Dean’s mental archive. It wasn’t a huge blow, after all, he still had thousands of years of hunter lore stored inside his mind, but it was the disconnect that bothered him. With each hunter who retired, Dean felt a little further away from his mission, his reason for being. His mind was a slowly dying fire, the last few embers still going strong, but not as strong as they used to be.

Benny was like a kerosene soaked log thrown on top of that fire. A hunter stalking Purgatory for almost seventy years, oh did he have juice. Dean’s Archetype powers hadn’t been this well fed in years. It was like standing next to the sun and soaking up all the energy it had. Dean hadn’t felt this strong in years. With Benny at his side, they’d hunt together forever, no need to stop or even slow down.

This was the life Dean wanted. Not the family he had on Earth, not visits with mom and dad in Heaven, _this_ , the pure, blissful carnage that was the endless hunt.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to tie everything up in such a pretty bow... but I kind of did. My goal when I started this fic was: more Benny, more Death, and Dean gets turned into a new kind of monster, BUT, a good one. I think I kind of managed that. Eileen is Eileen Leahy from season 11. Yes, I know they hadn't met her yet, but she and Sam had such good chemistry I just think they would've met eventually and got together in this new monster-lite world.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads, I know case fics aren't popular because there's no sex, but I hope everyone enjoyed.


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